THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


PHOEBE 


A  Novel  by  the  Author  of  "Rutkdge' 


BOSTON 

HOUGIITON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 
New  York:   11   East  Seventeenth  Street 

$rc00,  CambriDjje 
1884 


Copyright,  1884, 
Bl  HOUQIITON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Rirerside  Press,  Cambridge, 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  0-  Houghton  &  Co. 


PS 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  OVER  THE  LEFT  SHOULDER 1 

II.   A  PRETTY  PIECE  OF  NEWS       ....  14 

III.  WIDOW  HOLDEN 27 

IV.  JUST  A  WOMAN'S  NOTION 45 

V.  WEARY-FOOT  COMMON 54 

VI.  HUMBLE  PIE 61 

VII.  THE  NEW  DAUGHTER 70 

VIII.   TARTAR 87 

IX.   MARROWFAT 125 

X.  HONOR'S  WOUNDS 142 

XI.  A  DAY  IN  TOWN     . 149 

XII.     LUCY   HEARS   THE    STORY 156 

XIII.  LEFT  BEHIND 162 

XIV.  ISOLATION 177 

XV.   A  DIDO  -OF   TO-DAY 183 

XVI.   PEYTON  EDWARDS 197 

XVII.   BARRY'S  RETURN 212 

XVIII.    A  BUTTON  OFF 234 

XIX.   HAGAR 242 

XX.   THE  COOK  ASSISTS 249 

XXI.  RACING  AND  CHASING  O'ER  CANOBIE  LEE   .       .  266 

XXII.  GRAY  SHINGLES  ON  A  WET  DAY      .        .  *      .      270 

XXIII.  OUTSIDE  THE  KITCHEN  DOOR        ....  284 

XXIV.  AFTER  ALL! 296 

XXV.   IN  MY  LADY'S  CHAMBER 321 


PHCEBE. 

CHAPTER  I. 

OVER   THE  LEFT   SHOULDER. 

A  CLEAR  but  brief  November  day  had  ended. 
Though  not  yet  six  o'clock,  the  sky  was  almost 
without  color,  and  a  slender  silver  crescent  just 
above  the  trees,  almost  as  one  looked,  grew  sharp 
and  filled  with  light.  A  young  girl,  who  was  sit 
ting  at  a  window,  with  her  fair,  round  cheek  close 
against  the  pane,  looking  idly  out  at  the  falling 
leaves  and  the  darkening  landscape,  lifted  her 
head  suddenly,  and  saw  the  new  moon  and 
started. 

"  Oh,  mamma,  it 's  over  my  left  shoulder  !  "  she 
exclaimed,  petulantly.  "  What  horrid  ill-luck  are 
we  going  to  have  ?  It  never  fails.  I  hate  to  see 
it  over  my  left  shoulder." 

The  words  she  said  chimed  in  uncomfortably 
with  the  thoughts  of  the  lady  whom  she  addressed. 
There  was  a  third  person  in  the  room,  —  another 
young  girl,  seated  a.t  a  piano,  playing  softly  in  the 

twilight,  so  absorbed  that  her  younger  sister's  ex- 

1 


2  PIKEBE. 

clamation  did  not  draw  her  attention.  The  lady 
by  the  fire  did  not  turn  her  head,  but  shivered  a 
little,  and  said,  reproachfully,  after  a  moment,  — 

"  Then  you  must  have  seen  it  over  the  other 
shoulder  uninterruptedly  for  the  last  sixteen  years. 
I  don't  know  anybody  who 's  had  better  luck  than 
you,  Honor ;  or,  for  the  matter  of  that,  than  all  of 
us." 

"It  depends  upon  what  you  call  good  luck," 
said  Honor.  But  she  did  not  continue  the  sub 
ject,  having  very  little  to  say  on  her  side  of  the 
question ;  and,  besides,  it  was  not  an  hour  to  talk. 
So  she  leaned  against  the  pane,  and  gazed  out  at 
the  silver  thread  in  the  clear  sky,  and  at  the  vine 
clinging  to  the  wall,  from  which  the  leaves  were 
dropping  at  every  breath  of  the  now  sinking  wind, 
and  thought  her  own  young  thoughts.  The  room 
was  at  the  front  of  the  house,  and  the  window  at 
which  Honor  sat  looked  out  upon  the  entrance. 
Up  to  this  she  expected  every  moment  to  see  the 
carriage  drive,  bringing  her  father  from  his  day's 
toil  in  the  city.  This  room  was  a  library,  with 
warm,  dark  walls  and  a  good  many  pictures  ;  there 
was  no  lamp  in  it,  but  a  fire  blazed  on  the  wide 
hearth.  Beyond  was  a  dark  room,  and  beyond 
that,  again,  was  the  dining-room,  lighted  with 
shaded  lamps.  A  glimmer  of  silver  and  glass 
and  a  quietly  moving  maid  told  of  the  coming 
dinner-hour.  The  mother,  sunk  in  her  deep  chair 
before  the  fire,  had  been  looking  around  the  walls 


OVER   THE  LEFT  SHOULDER.  3 

of  the  room,  all  encrusted  as  they  were  with  the 
ornament  of  sentiment,  that  had  grown  on  them 
with  time  as  lichen  grows  on  stones.  She  fol 
lowed  the  fire-light  as  it  fell  on  her  fair-haired 
daughter,  whose  fingers  touched  the  keys,  and  on 
the  slender  young  creature  who  leaned  against  the 
window  ;  on  the  dog  at  her  feet,  who  lay  gazing  at 
the  blaze.  She  loved  the  smell  of  the  wood  as  the 
sap  oozed  from  it,  of  the  flowers  that  stood  on 
the  table  across  the  room,  even  the  scent  of  cigar 
smoke  in  the  book  that  lay  upon  her  lap.  They 
were  the  smells  of  home,  the  sights  of  home,  and 
they  were  dear  to  her.  She  remembered  twilights 
long  ago  in  this  very  room,  when  the  girl  at  the 
piano  had  scarcely  reached  the  keys  standing  on 
the  points  of  her  tiny  toes ;  when  Honor,  in  her 
nurse's  arms,  had  drummed  on  the  pane  waiting 
for  papa  at  that  very  window.  For  years  the 
sap  had  smelled  like  that,  and  the  flowers  had 
lived  and  died  for  generations  of  flower  life  in 
those  very  vases  ;  the  cigars  that  had  been  smoked 
by  this  very  fireside,  with  long  talks  and  midnight 
confidences,  as  she  sat  beside  her  once  young  hus 
band, —  who  could  count  or  recall  them?  Yes,  she 
had  had  a  peaceful  home,  a  sheltered  life,  prosper 
ous  to  the  world's  eye,  more  prosperous,  even,  to 
the  soul's  sense.  Her  children  !  —  she  always 
looked  at  them  with  such  a  gaze  of  love  and  satis 
faction  that  it  must  have  been  like  sunshine  and 
ripened  them,  one  would  think.  There  had  been 


4  PIKEBE. 

but  one  break  in  the  family  life,  while  the  only 
son  of  the  house  had  been  away  in  the  usual  exile 
of  school  and  college  days.  But  that  was  nearly 
over  now ;  in  a  few  months  he  would  be  at  home 
again,  and  they  would  be  complete. 

Complete!  That  was  the  word  she  had  been 
saying  over  to  herself  with  a  sort  of  fear  just  be 
fore  Honor  caught  sight  of  the  moon  in  that  un 
lucky  attitude.  What  life  could  be  more  com 
plete  than  hers  ?  Who  bad  ever  had  a  fuller  one  ? 
Everything  about  her,  from  the  lovely  contour  of 
Lucy's  head,  to  the  soft  depths  of  the  chair  that 
yielded  to  her  faintest  movement,  gave  her  a  sense 
of  satisfaction,  of  security,  of  comfort.  Just  at 
that  moment,  when  her  senses  were  so  satisfied, 
her  heart  so  contented,  there  came  a  vague  note  of 
alarm,  like  a  knock  at  the  outer  gate.  She  put  it 
aside,  but  the  faint,  muffled  sound  had  shocked 
her  nerves ;  she  could  not  get  it  out  of  her  ears. 

And  then  Honor  had  spoken.  Her  silly  little 
superstition  irritated  her  mother,  as  it  joined  itself 
to  the  train  of  thought  that  she  was  trying  to  ban 
ish.  She  was  glad  when  the  sound  of  the  wheels 
outside  came,  and  Honor  sprang  from  the  window 
and  ran  into  the  hall  to  meet  her  father,  and  Lucy 
left  the  piano  and  followed  her.  A  great  rush  of 
cold  air  came  in  before  the  outside  door  was  closed. 
The  girls'  sweet,  merry  voices  were  all  she  heard 
for  a  moment,  as  she  moved  forward  to  the  library 
door.  She  detected,  before  he  had  passed  the 


OVER  THE  LEFT  SHOULDER.  5 

threshold,  a  harsh  tone  in  the  father's  brief  answer 
to  their  pleasantry.  When  she  kissed  him,  he 
scarcely  returned  the  caress,  and  did  not  look  at 
her.  When  the  firelight  shone  on  his  face  she 
saw  that  it  was  pale.  She  had  too  much  tact  to 
say,  You  are  not  well.  His  was  too  reserved  a  na 
ture  to  be  reached  by  direct  routes  or  rapid  moves. 
She  must  wait  to  know  what  troubled  him  till 
they  are  alone,  and  till  he  chose  to  speak.  But 
speculation  was  not  idle.  She  sat  down  again  in 
her  chair,  and  a  hundred  alarms  passed  through 
her  brain.  Lucy  always  went  with  her  father  to 
his  dressing-room,  and  saw  that  it  was  lighted  and 
that  he  had  all  he  needed.  How  she  wished  she 
could  to-night  take  Lucy's  place,  and  shorten  her 
suspense !  Presently  Lucy  came  down,  and  or 
dered  dinner  put  upon  the  table,  and  went  and  sat 
on  the  other  side  of  the  fire,  while  Honor  was  tear 
ing  open  some  letters  by  the  dining-room  light. 

"  Papa  seems  tired,"  said  Lucy. 

"  He  is  very  busy  this  week,"  said  her  mother. 
"  I  suppose  he  has  been  in  court  all  day." 

And  then  they  were  silent.  When  he  came 
down  he  did  not  stop  at  the  library  fire,  but  saying 
that  he  supposed  dinner  was  ready  walked  directly 
in  to  the  table,  and  they  followed  him.  At  din 
ner  he  was  unwontedly  critical  of  the  food,  eating 
little,  and  not  attempting  to  talk,  answering  his 
daughters'  questions  shortly  and  absently.  He 
never  made  any  disguise  of  his  feelings  when  any- 


6  PHCEBE. 

thing  troubled  him ;  an  effort  at  gayety  or  inter 
est  in  passing  matters  he  never  thought  of.  His 
wife  watched  carefully,  and  tried  to  judge  whether 
some  serious  professional  disappointment  had  oc 
curred,  or  some  matter  of  more  personal  concern. 
Honor  attempted  once  or  twice  to  dniw  his  atten 
tion  by  a  half  impertinence,  which,  as  the  youngest 
in  the  family,  was  in  a  way  her  privilege.  Lucy 
looked  troubled,  and  tried  to  talk  on  matters  that" 
would  engage  them  all  safely.  At  last  Honor  said 
abruptly,  — 

"  Any  news  from  Barry  to-day  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  her  father,  shortly,  not  absently, 
nor  as  if  his  thoughts  had  been  called  from  some 
where  else. 

"  Oh,  why  did  you  not  tell  us  before !  Show  me 
the  letter,  papa.  Or  is  it  in  your  overcoat  pocket? 
May  I  run  and  get  it  ?"  And  she  half  rose  from 
the  table. 

"  I  have  no  letter  from  him,"  he  answered. 
"  Sit  down." 

"  Oh ! "  she  said,  a  little  confused  by  his  unusual 
manner.  "I — thought  you  meant  you  had  had 
a  letter  from  him." 

"  Barry  is  not  ill  ?  "  said  the  mother,  startled 
out  of  her  resolution  to  be  silent. 

"  I  have  not  heard  of  it,  if  he  is,"  returned  her 
husband,  not  looking  at  her,  as  he  poured  out  a 
glass  of  wine. 

Then   she   knew   that   the    trouble   was  about 


OVER  THE  LEFT  SHOULDER.  1 

Barry,  and  that  it  was  not  illness.  She  was  so 
materially  and  inbornly  a  mother  that  the  first 
feeling  was  one  of  relief.  If  that  dear  flesh  that 
she  had  nourished  and  cherished  was  safe  and 
well,  she  could  bear  all  the  rest.  Barry  had  done 
something  to  displease  his  father.  That  was  hard 
to  know  ;  but  it  would  come  right.  Whereas  if 
he  had  typhoid  fever,  or  had  broken  his  collar 
bone,  it  would  be  much  less  certain  to  do  so.  She 
thought  his  father  was  severe  in  his  judgment  of 
Barry,  always ;  not  from  lack  of  love,  but  from 
excess  of  it,  and  from  an  ambition  that  was  not 
measured  by  probabilities.  Two  male  human 
beings  could  not  be  more  dissimilar  than  they 
were.  The  father  was  sternly  intellectual,  with  an 
intellectual  man's  temptations  and  provocations. 
The  son  seemed  to  have  considerable  mental  force, 
but  withal  put  in  such  an  overpowering  mortal 
mould  that  the  balance  was  always  wavering  be 
tween  the  two.  He  was  so  fine  an  athlete  that 
even  his  masters  forgave  him  for  not  being  a  stu 
dent.  You  began  by  admiring  his  mind,  and  you 
ended  by  admiring  his  body.  You  condemned  his 
indolence,  and  you  found  your  eyes  following  him 
with  perfect  satisfaction.  How  could  you  blame 
a  youth  for  not  trying  for  the  first  prize  in  Greek, 
when  without  trying  he  could  get  the  first  prize 
in  everything  else  outside  ?  But  his  father  blamed 
him,  and  could  see  no  excuse  for  his  lack  of  ambi 
tion.  He  himself  had  never  known  the  tempta- 


8  PIHEBE. 

tion  of  pleasure-seeking.  It  simply  offered  no  at 
traction  for  him.  Work  and  rest  were  the  two 
poles  of  his  battery.  An  early  and  satisfying 
marriage  had  closed  the  door  of  the  world  to  him, 
which,  however,  no  loneliness  would  ever  have 
driven  him  to  open.  It  never  would  have  oc 
curred  to  him  that  recreation  or  solace  could  be 
found  in  society;  he  would  as  soon  have  thought 
of  burrowing  in  the  earth  for  it.  With  a  generous 
confidence  in  the  allotments  of  fate,  he  took  it  for 
granted  that  his  only  son  was  the  exact  pattern  of 
himself,  and  looked  forward  to  his  career  as  his 
own  amplified  and  made  perfect  by  the  removal 
of  obstacles.  In  all  his  professional  life,  he  had 
one  guiding  purpose,  — Barry's  future.  And'when 
this  superb  young  animal,  with  undoubted  abili 
ties,  but  undoubted  distaste  for  using  them,  was 
launched  on  his  college  career,  and  made  him 
self  adored  of  everybody,  but  ahead  of  nobody  (in 
Greek),  he  grew  hard  towards  him,  and  bitter. 
The  mother  had  need  of  all  her  tact  and  patience 
to  mediate  between  the  two.  But  her  efforts  had 
not  been  fruitless.  Just  in  his  last  year  he  Imd 
roused  himself,  more  from  affectionate  desire  to 
please  them  than  from  any  other  motive,  perhaps, 
and  had  done  so  well  as  to  surprise  and  pacify  his 
father.  Now  he  was  away,  studying  at  a  law 
school  in  a  remote  country  town,  it  being  a  fancy 
of  his  father's  that  there,  at  least,  he  would  be  free 
from  the  distractions  of  society. 


OVER   THE  LEFT  SHOULDER.  9 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  Barry  had  shown 
himself  a  wild  and  reckless  fellow.  On  the  con 
trary,  he  seemed  a  son  to  be  proud  of,  if  one  would 
take  him  as  the  gift  of  heaven,  and  not  as  a 
manufacture  of  one's  own.  .He  did  not  fill  his 
father's  bill,  certainly,  but  that  was  scarcely  his 
fault,  as  it  would  have  been  necessary  for  him  to 
make  himself  over  da  capo,  to  accomplish  that, 
and  at  twenty  one  does  not  take  to  reconstruction 
kindly.  Barry  loved  his  father,  and  wanted  to 
please  him  ;  but  as  he  could  only  do  so  by  giving 
up  every  impulse  of  his  nature,  and  acting  upon 
impulses  which  he  did  not  feel,  and  only  faintly 
wished  he  could  feel,  it  was  disheartening  work, 
and  he  naturally  had  no  enthusiasm  for  it. 

Just  now,  however,  things  were  working  better. 
They  had  good  reports  of  him  from  the  remote 
country  law  school,  and  his  father's  hopes  were  re 
viving.  That  some  disappointing  account  of  his 
want  of  application  to  his  studies  had  come  was 
the  worst  his  mother  feared.  It  was  very  bad, 
very  discouraging,  certainly,  but  it  would  come 
out  all  right.  Since  he  was  n't  ill,  bless  him,  she 
could  bear  it,  whatever  it  might  be. 

After  dinner,  she  played  a  duet  with  Lucy ; 
she  had  a  long  consultation  with  Honor  about  the 
crewels  for  her  screen  ;  she  read,  or  tried  to  read, 
the  evening  paper.  By  half-past  nine  o'clock  she 
acknowledged  to  herself  that  she  cared  more  than 
she  thought,  and  that  the  suspense  was  fretting 


10  PHCEBE. 

her  unbearably.  Lucy  saw  it,  and  managed  to 
draw  Honor  up-stairs  a  half  hour  earlier  than 
usual,  and  husband  and  wife  were  left  alone  to 
gether. 

Mr.  Crittenden  had  been  sitting  at  a  small 
table  beside  the  fire,  looking  over  some  papers. 
His  wife  knew  very  well  he  was  only  making  a 
pretense  of  occupation.  It  was  no  real  work.  He 
pushed  the  papers  into  a  drawer,  at  last,  and  leaned 
back  in  his  chair.  He  looked  across  at  her  where 
she  sat,  and  their  eyes  met.  She  had  not  pledged 
herself  to  anything  but  silence ;  she  let  her  eyes 
fasten  on  his  with  an  anxious  appeal. 

"  I  have  some  pretty  news  for  you,"  he  said, 
after  a  few  moments,  in  a  hard,  grating  tone. 

"  You  won't  make  it  any  prettier  by  keeping 
it  from  me,  will  you  ?  "  she  said,  in  a  suppressed 
voice. 

"I  have  n't  kept  it  any  longer  than  was  nec 
essary.  It  is  n't  exactly  the  kind  of  news  one 
would  lay  before  young  girls." 

And  then  he  paused  again.  From  being  the  de 
fender  and  advocate  of  Barry  for  so  long,  Mr.  Crit 
tenden  had  come  to  have  the  tone  of  regarding  his 
wife  as  a  partner  in  his  son's  misdemeanors.  She 
had  made  light  of  his  faults  so  often,  that  her  hus 
band  naturally  felt  they  did  not  pain  her,  and  it  was 
with  a  feeling  that  he  was  the  only  one  wounded, 
and  not  with  any  wish  to  spare  her,  but  rather  as 
one  injured,  that  he  always  made  his  complaints. 


OVER  THE  LEFT  SHOULDER.  11 

"I  ought  to  have  been  prepared  for  this,  but 
I  confess  I  wasn't.  I  might  have  known  there 
was  but  one  natural  result  of  a  life  without  pur 
pose." 

Mrs.  Crittenden  got  up  and  walked  once  or  twice 
across  the  room,  then  sat  down  resolutely  and 
folded  her  hands,  and  looked  into  the  fire  with 
sealed  lips. 

"  You  and  I  have  never  agreed  about  this  mat 
ter,"  he  went  on.  "I  have  never  been  able  to 
make  you  understand  the  dangers  of  your  method 
with  the  boy.  I  can't  expect  your  sympathy  with 
my  disappointments." 

"  I  have  not  been  disappointed,"  she  said,  stoutly. 
"  I  see  no  reason  to  despair  of  Barry.  He  is  n't 
what  we  meant  him  to  be,  but  he 's  a  fine  fellow 
for  all  that,  and  one  whom  any  father  might  be 
proud  of." 

There  was  a  bitter  sneer  in  the  father's  tone  as 
he  said,  "  A  particularly  fine  fellow ;  the  pride  of 
any  household.  Read  that." 

And  he  laid  upon  the  table  a  letter.  His  wife 
got  up  and  went  to  the  light  and  took  it  up.  It 
was  in  an  unfamiliar  hand,  a  man's,  and  bore 
the  postmark  of  the  town  where  the  law  school 
was.  She  opened  it  and  read  it,  standing  by  the 
lamp.  As  she  read,  her  breath  came  quicker.  She 
put  out  one  hand  and  steadied  herself  by  a  chair 
that  stood  beside  her.  When  her  eyes  had  flashed 
through  the  letter  once,  she  let  go  the  chair  for  an 


12  PHOEBE. 

instiint  to  turn  back  the  page  and  re-read  it.  She 
was  generally  self-controlled,  and  she  counted  upon 
her  strength,  but  for  once  she  had  overrated  it. 
She  reeled  a  little  when  she  lost  the  support, 
dropped  the  letter,  and  sank  into  the  chair.  Then 
she  sat  quite  still,  her  eyes  on  the  floor,  the  color 
surging  up  into  her  face  and  going  back  again. 
Her  husband,  full  of  his  own  trouble,  was  not 
looking  at  her.  She  had  never  allowed  him  to 
pity  her  before  in  the  matter  of  Barry;  he  did 
not  think  of  beginning  now. 

"  I  have  n't  answered  the  letter  yet,"  he  said, 
"  but  something  must  be  done."  He  got  up  and 
went  to  the  fire,  and  replaced  a  stick  that  had 
rolled  down.  "  Something  must  be  done  at  once," 
he  said,  standing  and  looking  into  the  fire.  "  We  '11 
have  to  send  him  away  from  there.  We  might 
as  well  face  it.  We  "11  have  our  hands  full  keep 
ing  him  out  of  trouble.  This  is  but  the  begin 
ning." 

As  she  did  not  answer  him,  he  added,  after 
a  moment,  a  little  impatiently,  "I  suppose  it 
does  n't  surprise  you  ?  " 

"  I  feel  ill,"  she  said,  speaking  in  a  faint  voice. 
"  One  of  those  attacks  is  coming  on.  Give  me  a 
glass  of  water,  will  you  ?  " 

He  went  across  to  the  dining-room  to  get  the 
water,  thinking  as  he  went  that  it  was  an  unfortu 
nate  time  for  her  to  have  one  of  her  attacks  just 
when  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  talk  this  matter 


OVER   THE  LEFT  SHOULDER.  13 

over  with  her.  He  didn't  associate  the  attack 
with  his  pretty  news  in  any  other  way.  She  had 
always  been  so  brave  about  Barry,  it  was  not  al 
together  to  be  wondered  at.  When  he  came  back 
and  gave  the  water  to  her,  she  drank  it,  and  seemed 
better.  He  hoped  the  attack  was  n't  coming  on, 
after  all. 

"Do  you  feel  better?"  he  asked. 

She  said,  "Yes." 

"  Keep  quiet  a  few  minutes,  then,  and  perhaps 
it  will  pass  over.  I  want  you  to  be  able  to  settle 
with  me  what 's  to  be  done  about  this  matter. 
You  would  not  be  satisfied  to  leave  it  to  me." 

"  Oil,  Edward,  don't  be  cruel  to  me  !  "  she  ex 
claimed,  burying  her  face  in  her  hands.  He  went 
quickly  to  her,  and  bent  over  her.  She  caught 
his  hand,  shivering  and  crying. 

"  This  blow  will  kill  me,"  she  moaned.  "  Help 
me  !  help  me  !  "  He  put  his  arms  around  her,  and 
she  clung  to  him.  The  "dull,  hard  stone"  within 
him  melted  as  he  felt  her  tears,  and  his  own  eyes 
filled  with  the  slow,  unaccustomed  moisture. 

One  feels  as  if  children  must  have  some  fatal 
penalty  to  pay  for  calling  forth  the  awful  tears  of 
disappointed  parental  love. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  PRETTY  PIECE   OF  NEWS. 

THE  letter  was  from  one  of  the  professors  of  the 
law  school,  who  had  been  a  classmate  of  Mr.  Crit- 
tenden's,  and  to  whom  he  had  written  when  Barry 
went  there  to  pursue  his  unbeloved  studies.  There 
was  no  intimacy  between  the  two  men.  There 
had  been  a  strong  rivalry  in  youth,  but  the  city 
lawyer  had  so  distanced  the  country  professor 
that  all  that  had  died  out.  The  unsuccessful  man 
was  none  the  less  convinced  of  his  own  merits ; 
the  successful  man  always  felt  that  perhaps  luck 
had  been  unduly  on  his  side.  The  latter  had  felt 
a  faint  hesitation  in  asking  the  professor  to  look 
a  little  after  Barry,  when  he  sent  him  to  the  law 
school.  The  people  who  have  been  important  to 
us  in  our  youth  always  retain  a  certain  prominence 
in  our  minds.  Few  men  of  Mr.  Crittenden's  ac 
quaintance  were  of  less  worldly  importance  than 
Professor  S  my  the,  but  from  few  of  them  would  it 
have  been  as  painful  to  him  to  receive  the  follow 
ing  letter  :  — 

MY  DEAR  CRITTENDEN,  —  When  your  son  in 
troduced  himself  to  me,  and  presented  your  let- 


A  PRETTY  PIECE  OF  NEWS.  15 

ter  commending  him  in  a  measure  to  my  care,  I 
felt  as  if  it  would  not  be  much  that  would  be  re 
quired  of  me,  besides  enjoying  the  sight  of  and 
occasional  intercourse  with  such  a  fine  young  fel 
low.  I  have  riot  written  before  in  answer  to  it, 
because,  in  fact,  the  letter  did  not  seem  to  require 
an  answer,  and  because  the  young  man  seemed  to 
be  doing  so  well  as  to  make  it  superfluous  to  send 
you  any  report  of  him.  Within  a  few  days, 
however,  such  a  painful  rumor  has  reached  my 
ears  that  I  cannot  feel  myself  justified  in  letting 
you  remain  in  ignorance  of  it.  When  I  speak  of 
rumor,  I  must  add  that  it  is  not  of  mere  report  I 
speak ;  but  before  writing  I  have  taken  pains  to 
verify  the  story,  and  not  to  distress  you  unneces 
sarily. 

You  will  remember  that  last  summer  your  son 
and  a  companion  went  off  on  a  walking  expedition 
during  the  vacation.  Their  journey  did  not  ex 
tend  very  far.  I  am  told  that  they,  or  at  least  he, 
did  not  go  farther  than  Maiden,  a  small  farming 
village  about  twelve  miles  from  here,  and  there 
spent  the  entire  three  weeks.  He  has,  I  believe, 
been  there  at  various  times  during  the  autumn. 
Latterly,  I  have  noticed  in  him  an  unusual  ap 
plication  to  study,  and  a  gravity,  I  might  almost 
say  anxiety.  I  know  very  little  of  the  lives  of  the 
young  men,  and  am  not  thrown  at  all  with  them 
except  in  the  lecture-room,  and  I  knew  nothing  of 
this  matter  till  it  had  become  town  talk,  and  of 


/ 


16  PHCEBE. 

such  importance  as  to  reach  my  ears.  It  appears 
that  the  ruin  of  a  young  girl  living  somewhere 
near  Maiden  is  laid  to  his  charge,  and  that  the 
people  of  the  neighborhood  are  much  excited  by 
the  fact.  She  is  the  daughter  of  a  widow,  and 
has  no  brother  or  near  male  relative,  or  I  suppose 
there  would  have  been  some  scene  of  violence. 
According  to  the  popular  idea,  however,  this  only 
makes  the  worse  case  against  him.  I  must  add,  I 
understand  the  young  woman  to  have  borne  a  good 
character  hitherto,  and  to  belong  to  an  entirely 
respectable  family,  though  in  very  humble  circum 
stances. 

I  need  not  say,  my  dear  Crittenden,  how  pain 
ful  it  has  been  to  me  to  write  of  this  to  you,  but 
I  have  felt  it  my  duty  to  let  you  know  the  facts. 
You  will  understand  enough  of  life  in  a  small 
town  to  know  that  it  is  not  wise  for  him  to  re 
main  longer  here,  and  I  fancy,  by  withdrawing  him 
at  once  and  quietly,  the  scandal  of  an  expulsion 
can  be  avoided.  You  know  you  may  command 
my  friendship  in  the  matter  to  the  utmost. 
I  am  yours  faithfully, 

ERASTUS  B.  SMYTHE. 

It  was  late  at  night  when  Mrs.  Crittenden  re 
read  this  letter  alone  in  her  dressing-room.  The 
agitating  talk  had  worn  her  husband  out,  and  had 
left  her  worse  than  sleepless.  While  he  slept, 
exhausted,  she  paced  the  floor  in  ever-increasing 


A  PRETTY  PIECE  OF  NEWS.  17 

distress  of  mind.  The  night  wore  on,  and  found 
her  still  up,  still  unable  to  accustom  herself  to  the 
thought  of  what  had  befallen  them,  still  unrecon 
ciled  to  the  Power  that  had  not  restrained  her 
child  from  sin  in  answer  to  her  prayers.  This 
room,  above  all  others  in  the  house,  was  associated 
with  those  prayers.  She  turned  with  a  bitter 
heart  from  the  sight  of  the  prayer-desk  where  she 
always  knelt.  His  picture  lay  under  the  cross,  and 
had  lain  hidden  there  ever  since  he  left  her  first. 
There  was  a  feeling  in  her  heart  that  Heaven 
would  understand  it  as  a  mute  prayer  for  him 
every  hour  and  moment  of  the  day  that  she  could 
not  pray  for  him  with  words.  There  came  back 
to  her  some  words  of  yesterday's  Psalter.  They 
had  been  sounding  in  her  ears  all  day,  in  an  un 
meaning,  unappropriated  way,  just  as  words.  "  No 
man  may  deliver  his  brother,  nor  make  agreement 
unto  God  for  him.  For  it  cost  more  to  redeem, 
their  souls,  so  that  he  must  let  that  alone  forever." 

She  had  tried  to  make  agreement ;  she  had 
failed.  Had  her  faith  been  a  childish  one?  It  had 
lasted  so  many  years ;  she  had  been  so  confident, 
so  patient.  It  was  late  to  begin  to  know  what 
and  who  to  believe  in.  It  was  hard  to  have  spent. 
a  life-time  in  a  service,  and  to  find  oat  in  a  minute 
there  had  been  neither  master,  nor  wages,  nor  rules, 
except  in  credulous  fancy. 

She  thought  of  other  women  whom  she  knew, 

commonplace,    easy  women  of   the  world,  whose 
2 


18  PHCEBE. 

sons  had  turned  out  good  and  honorable  men  ; 
who  had  never  had  this  horror,  this  shame  of  heart, 
this  burden  of  inward  degradation,  to  bear.  Oh, 
those  prayers,  —  what  had  they  availed  ?  Those 
petition  ings  of  Heaven  day  and  night,  —  what 
answer  had  they  got? 

She  was  a  woman  whose  serene  dignity  gave  no 
idea  of  the  depths  of  her  emotional  nature.  Peo 
ple  said  she  was  just  to  her  children  rather  than 
enthusiastic  about  them.  No  one,  perhaps,  not 
even  her  husband,  suspected  the  absorbing  nature 
of  her  love ;  the  romance,  the  poem,  that  each 
young  life  was  to  her.  Her  pride  and  reserve 
made  it  more  possible  for  her  to  conceal  it  from 
herself  than  to  reveal  it  to  others.  And  she  had 
so  concealed  it.  She  only  saw  when  the  knowl 
edge  of  her  son's  fall  came  to  her  how  high  had 
been  the  place  she  had  given  him,  what  an  impos 
sible  perfection  she  had  required  of  him. 

She  pulled  from  her  dress  a  miniature  that  she 
had  worn  ever  since  he  was  a  baby ;  she  did  not 
look  at  it,  but  shut  it  up  in  a  drawer  and  locked 
it  in.  No  one  knew  that  she  had  worn  it.  She 
wished  she  could  forget  that  she  had.  She  turned 
from  his  picture  on  the  wall.  If  he  had  been 
dead  it  would  have  been  easier  to  look  at  it.  To 
do  her  justice,  it  was  in  no  wise  the  scandal  that 
abased  her.  She  had  not  come  to  regard  that  yet. 
But  it  was  the  sin,  the  deception,  the  grossness 
of  the  fall.  She  was  so  much  a  woman  that  she 


A  PRETTY  PIECE  OF  NEWS.  19 

felt  she  could  have  yearned  over  and  longed  for 
him  if  he  had  been  in  prison  for  some  dishonor 
able  sin  for  lucre.  But  she  did  not  yearn  over 
him  now.  She  did  not  long  for  him.  She  felt 
estranged,  turned  cold  and  unnatural. 

"  As  if,  fond  leaning  where  her  infant  slept, 
A  mother's  arm  a  serpent  should  embrace." 

She  had  made  so  many  excuses  for  him.  She 
had  had  such  full  faith  in  his  goodness  of  nature, 
such  patience  with  his  light-heartedness  and  love 
of  pleasure.  She  had  felt  herself  so  much  wiser 
than  her  husband.  She  had  never  wavered,  not 
for  a  moment,  in  her  belief  in  him.  He  would 
come  out  all  right.  If  one  understood  him,  there 
was  nothing  to  make  one  doubt.  He  was  con 
scientious  and  affectionate,  and  so  much  under  her 
influence.  Her  influence, — ah!  She  shuddered. 
Only  two  mouths  ago  he  had  been  at  home  with 
her,  and  she  had  not  seen  any  difference  in  him. 
What  wisdom,  what  intuitions  !  How  fit  she  was 
to  guide  and  influence  him  !  Oh,  poor  mother  ! 
not  only  had  her  idol  fallen  in  the  dust,  but  she 
herself  had  fallen  with  it.  In  all  our  abasements 
that  is  generally  the  worst  part. 

The  fire  in  the  grate  had  burned  out ;  the  room 
was  cold.  The  house  was  still,  with  the  early- 
dawn  stillness,  when  it  is  also  the  coldest.  She 
could  not  remember  a  vigil  that  had  not  been 
because  of  illness.  She  thought  of  the  nights  — 


20  PHCEBE. 

not  many  of  them  —  when  she  had  watched  anx 
iously  by  the  beds  of  her  children,  and  had  seen 
the  dawn  break.  Ah  !  there  are  different  trials 
in  life,  "afflictions  of  all  sizes."  She  wondered 
if  there  were  anything  yet  reserved  for  her  that 
would  make  this  night's  anguish  pale,  as  this  had 
made  those  earlier  ones.  She  could  believe  any 
thing  of  suffering,  as  she  was  living  through  this. 
She  paced  up  and  down  the  room,  and  then  went 
out  into  the  hall,  now  dark  and  still.  Her  heart 
swelled  as  she  thought  of  the  little  feet  and  merry 
voices  that  she  would  never  hear  in  it  again. 
She  felt  as  if  their  family  life  were  dead.  She 
could  not  imagine  merriment  ever  again  among 
them.  (She  was  a  woman,  and  exaggerated.) 
She  went  softly  to  the  room  where  her  two  young 
daughters  slept,  and,  shading  the  candle  she  held 
with  one  hand,  gazed  down  at  the  fair,  sleeping 
faces.  Honor  had  deserted  her  own  pretty  nest, 
and  crept  into  her  sister's. 

"  Thank  God  !  "  she  murmured,  "  they  are  mine 
still.  I  cannot  lose  them" 

And  the  dry  sirocco  of  the  night's  anguish  was 
relieved  by  a  rush  of  tears.  But  at  that  moment 
there  came  a  sharp,  pricking  thought  into  her 
mind.  She  started  away  from  the  bed  where  the 
young  girls  slept,  and  went  back  to  her  own  room. 
Her  tears  were  sent  back  to  their  source ;  there 
was  a  tight  feeling  about  her  chest,  a  nervous  en 
ergy  about  her  movements.  "  Never !  "  she  said, 


A  PRETTY  PIECE  OF  NEWS.  21 

between  her  teeth,  as  she  pulled  aside  the  curtain 
and  looked  out  at  the  dark  sky  where  there  were 
still  faint,  .cold  stars.  "  Never  !  " 

She  was  not  thinking  of  the  stars,  nor  watching 
for  the  dawn.  She  mechanically  dropped  the  cur 
tain,  and  walked  again  up  and  down  the  room. 
Then  shutting  the  door,  and  throwing  a  wrap 
about  her  shoulders,  she  sat  down  by  the  dead  fire, 
and  tried  restlessly  to  rekindle  it,  as  if  some  op 
position  had  taken  the  place  of  her  abandoned 
misery,  and  must  find  practical  expression.  She 
entered  into  the  details  of  the  fire-making  as  if 
there  had  not  been  anything  else  to  think  of ;  and 
when  her  determination  was  rewarded  by  a  faint 
blaze  and  rustle,  she  leaned  back  in  her  low  chair, 
and  gazed  at  the  flicker,  and  repeated,  "  Never !  " 
with  her  hands  firm  set  together. 

Never  what  ?  The  thought  that  had  turned  her 
pain  into  such  a  changed  channel,  as  she  gazed 
at  the  innocent  loveliness  of  her  children,  was 
this : — 

"  There  is  a  mother  who  to-night  cannot  look 
with  such  solace  on  her  daughter's  face.  I  am  not 
the  only  one  who  suffers.  Which  is  the  worse  load 
to  bear,  —  hers  or  mine  ?  Can  I  help  Tier?  " 

Up  to  that  moment  she  had  not  thought  of  the 
mother.  She  had  thought  of  the  ruined,  degraded 
girl  with  repulsion,  with  angry,  furious  resent 
ment.  She  could  not  change  that  feeling  now, 
but  thinking  of  the  mother  gave  her  a  feverish 


22  PHCEBE. 

anguish.  She  could  not  hide  it  from  herself  that 
she  was  an  object  of  just  compassion.  However 
low  her  station,  it  was  certain  that  she  suffered. 
In  all  stations  of  life,  the  sight  of  a  daughter's 
shame  is  counted  the  sharpest  ignominy  possible. 
And  these  people  were  not  low  enough  to  be  ac 
customed  to  immorality.  They  were  undoubtedly 
far  less  sensitive,  and  missed  much  of  the  finer 
pain  of  finer  culture;  but  there  were  certain  in 
stincts  of  nature  which  were  not  wanting  in  them. 
This  woman  was  suffering ;  then,  innocently  suf 
fering,  perhaps,  from  her  son's  ill-doing.  Could 
any  human  power  help  her  ?  Yes.  There  was  but 
one  way  ;  and  there  was  but  one  person,  perhaps, 
who  had  the  power,  and  she  was  that  person.  She 
knew  that  if  she  set  her  face  to  have  the  repara 
tion  made,  in  all  probability  it  would  be  made.  It 
was  then,  with  her  heart  as  flint,  that  she  said,  — 

"  Never !  " 

She  was  not  a  person  ignorant  of,  or  indifferent 
to,  the  world's  judgment.  There  was  a  Judgment 
she  set  far  above  it,  and  to  which  she  looked  with 
an  unusual  fixedness;  but  she  was  human,  and  she 
had  not  lived  forty-two  years  among  selfish  men 
and  women  without  a  little  seeing  with  their  eyes 
and  hearing  with  their  ears.  She  knew  that  what 
her  son  had  done  would  be  only  a  temporary  in 
jury  to  his  worldly  prospects ;  she  knew  that  in 
her  husband's  eyes  the  worst  feature  of  it  was  the 
portent  of  his  future  recklessness.  That  might 


A  PRETTY  PIECE  OF  NEWS.  23 

be  tempered  by  the  discipline  of  circumstances, 
and  sobered  by  maturer  years.  He  might  yet  be 
"  as  other  men  are."  A  little  money  would  bridge 
over  the  scandal.  Outwardly  everything  might 
yet  be  well.  It  did  not  pacify  her  heart  at  all. 
He  was  "  strange  to  her,"  this  son  she  had  borne. 
But  she  had  another  side  than  the  midnight,  heart- 
revealing  one  which  we  have  been  looking  upon. 
She  had  strong  common  sense,  and  a  nice  appreci 
ation  of  what  was  acceptable  and  profitable  in  life. 
She  had  been  successful  in  her  small  way.  She 
had  found  it  so  easy  to  succeed  that  she  had  not 
valued  her  success  very  much.  The  strong  relig 
ious  feeling  which  I  have  described  had  never  been 
brought  into  serious  conflict  with  this  easy,  smooth 
popularity  -  possibility  in  her  nature.  She  had 
had  such  a  sweet,  good,  happy  home  she  had  been 
satisfied,  and  had  thought  little  about  it.  Duty 
and  pleasure  had  gone  hand  in  hand.  She  had  not 
been  obliged  to  define  herself  ambitious,  because 
she  had  had  poured  into  her  lap  all  she  wanted, 
and  had  never  known  what  it  was  to  be  hungry. 
Now,  in  her  secret  heart,  she  found  she  was  ambi 
tious,  —  not  for  herself,  but  for  her  children.  But 
she  found  it  out  only  when  the  pleasant  fruits  ly 
ing  in  her  lap  were  being  snatched  away. 

She  had  imagination  enough  to  know  what  a 
galling,  degrading  yoke  an  ill-assorted  marriage 
is.  To  what  depths  would  she  sink  her  already 
fallen  boy,  if  she  insisted  on  his  making  this 


24  PHCEBE. 

reparation?  Why  should  she  set  her  judgment 
against  the  judgment  of  the  world ;  of  all  the 
intelligent  men  and  women  who  believed  other 
wise;  of  her  husband,  whose  strong  dissent  she 
felt  sure  of  ?  Her  judgment !  —  she  had  not  much 
reason  to  respect  it  at  this  crisis.  No,  she  would 
not  listen  to  the  faint  but  unceasing  voice  within 
her.  "  Never  !  " 

The  fire  was  not  much  of  a  success.  It  flickered 
and  burned  blue ;  it  curled  around  the  bars  of  the 
grate,  and  spit  out  little  gusts  of  smoke  that  made 
a  nasty  odor  in  the  room.  She  grew  chill  and 
weary.  She  would  go  to  bed.  She  got  up  and 
began  to  undress  herself.  As  she  stood  before  her 
dressing-glass,  a  sudden  faintness  came  over  her,  — 
not  so  much,  if  one  could  make  the  distinction,  a 
physical  swoon  as  a  mental  one.  She  walked  quite 
steadily  to  the  chair  and  sat  down,  and  lay  leaning 
back  in  it,  with  her  eyes  closed.  It  seemed  to  her 
the  bed  for  which  she  was  making  ready  was  her 
death-bed ;  that  she  was  laying  aside  for  the  last 
time  the  adornments  and  the  habiliments  of  earth. 
She  should  need  nothing  henceforth  of  the  things 
of  time;  she  was  leaving  all  behind  that  could 
not  be  carried  with  her  when  she  lay  down  in  the 
"wormy  bed."  She  knew  the  parting  with  her 
children  had  come ;  all  her  labor  and  planning  for 
them  was  done ;  all  work  was  at  an  end ;  no  more 
now  was  permitted  her  to  do,  but  what  she  had 
done  would  be  living  on  after  her.  With  keen, 


A  PRETTY  PIECE  OF  NEWS.  25 

awful  sight  she  saw  what  had  been  well  done,  and 
what  amiss  and  with  a  low  aim  ;  for  those  few 
strange  moments  everything  stood  out  in  the  clear, 
high,  cold  light  of  eternity.  Little  details  of  long- 
past  times,  a  decision  about  discouraging  this  com 
panion  and  encouraging  that,  the  selection  of  this 
school  in  preference  to  that,  the  giving  up  to  cer 
tain  prejudices  of  others,  —  all  came  before  her 
with  startling  familiarity  and  yet  more  startling 
newness.  The  gloss  faded  off  some  pleasures,  a 
new  lustre  grew  on  others.  All  seemed  new,  yet 
old ;  awful,  yet  real.  The  worth  of  to-day's  short 
success  against  to-morrow's  long  retrospect,  —  the 
balance,  in  fact,  of  time  and  eternity ;  the  praise 
of  men,  or  the  praise  of  God. 

A  half  hour  passed.  A  little  more  light  came  in 
at  the  window.  The  steps  of  a  servant  going  down 
stairs  shufflingly  broke  the  stillness  of  the  house. 
Day  was  come,  and  the  household  was  rousing 
itself  afresh.  "  The  sleep  and  the  forgetting " 
were  over  for  this  night.  The  weary  watcher  shiv 
ered,  and  lifted  her  head.  Life  had  begun  again 
for  her.  The  momentary  faintness  was  a  trick  of 
the  nerves.  Whatever  you  might  call  it,  it  had 
done  its  work,  and  was  gone.  She  knew  very  well 
she  was  not  going  to  die,  but  going  to  live,  and  to 
suffer,  and  be  tempted,  as  of  old.  Everything 
seemed  inexpressively  commonplace  and  cheerless, 
—  the  cold  room,  the  dead  fire,  the  gray  light 
creeping  through  the  curtains,  the  yawning  ser- 


26  PHCEBE. 

vants  making  their  sleepy  way  down-stairs.  She 
had  come  back  to  life,  but  she  had  been  to  its  very 
brink ;  and  a  responsibility  lay  upon  her  not  to 
let  slip  from  her  memory  what  she  had  seen  when 
she  stood  there. 


CHAPTER  III. 

WIDOW  HOLDEN. 

You  are  not  apt  to  feel  very  fresh  and  vivacious 
after  being  awake  all  night,  even  if  there  has  been 
nothing  to  wear  upon  your  nerves  but  the  loss 
of  sleep.  Most  people  are  familiar  with  the  un 
compromising  character  of  such  depression.  It  is 
not  only  that  your  spirits  are  low,  but  your  nerves 
are  strained  ;  not  only  that  to-day  is  a  bore,  but 
the  recollection  of  yesterday  is  hateful,  and  the 
anticipation  of  to-morrow  without  attraction.  If, 
in  addition  to  your  vigil,  you  have  had  any  men 
tal  conflict  to  pass  through,  all  that  has  changed 
color  with  the  daylight.  Your  tragedy  has  be 
come  melodrama,  your  tears  taste  of  brine,  your 
heart's  blood  looks  very  thin  and  poor ;  you  feel 
not  only  ashamed  of  your  emotion,  but  out  of  tem 
per  about  it. 

Mrs.  Crittenden  found  it  very  hard  to  meet  the 
requirements  of  this  every-day  day,  which  was  yet 
so  unlike  every  day.  It  was  raining  dully.  If  it 
had  not  been,  she  would  have  gone  to  the  city, 
or  somehow  got  away  from  this  insufferable  yoke 
of  family  life  for  a  few  hours.  She  had  done  all 


28  PIHEBE. 

the  thinking,  feeling,  resolving,  of  which  she  was 
capable,  and  she  had  a  sense  of  impatience  at 
the  stagnation  at  which  she  had  arrived,  even 
while  there  was  a  feeling  of  relief  that  there  was 
no  more  that  she  could  do.  No,  there  was  noth 
ing  more  that  she  could  do.  She  had  made  her 
resolution  in  cold  blood,  and  there  was  nothing 
but  to  carry  it  out.  The  conflict  with  herself 
had  been  the  real,  scorching  trial ;  now  there  was 
only  the  hard,  practical  business  of  keeping  her 
self  to  what  she  had  promised. 

She  shut  herself  up  in  her  dressing-room,  and 
sat  down  by  the  window,  against  which  a  slow, 
persistent,  chill  rain  was  pattering.  If  the  wind 
had  roared,  if  the  trees  had  bent,  if  the  sky  had 
been  black  with  storm !  But  it  was  a  com 
monplace,  raw  November  rain,  chilling  one  like  a 
peevish,  exacting,  low-spirited  woman  in  a  house. 
The  few  leaves  were  not  swirled  off  in  a  gust,  but 
fell  dispiritedly  into  the  pools  and  rivulets  that 
had  formed  in  the  carriage-way  before  the  door. 
The  vines  hung  despondently  against  the  house : 
they  did  not  moan  or  sway ;  they  only  creaked 
exasperatingly  in  the  little  peevish  wind  that  oc 
casionally  moved  them  slightly.  The  ground  had 
a  soaked  look,  as  if  it  had  had  enough  of  it ;  the 
sky  was  even,  monotonous,  mediocre,  grim.  The 
thermometer  was  not  very  low,  but  the  dampness 
was  unspeakable.  The  stems  of  the  trees  looked 
water-logged  and  unwholesome  ;  from  the  twigs 


WIDOW  HOLDEN.  29 

hung  drops  that  the  weak  wind  did  not  shake  off. 
There  was  little  life  or  motion  within  sight  from 
the  window.  The  house  was  too  far  from  the  road 
to  distinguish  passers  easily,  and  into  the  grounds 
no  one,  at  this  hour  and  on  such  a  day,  would  be 
likely  to  come.  The  grocer  and  the  butcher  had 
paid  their  morning  visit.  Mrs.  Crittenden  had 
already  gone  through  that  penance.  There  was 
nothing,  there  was  nobody  to  come.  She  sat  at 
the  window  with  the  feeling  of  a  person  who 
knows  there  is  nothing  to  see,  but  who  must  gaze 
on  with  the  bitter  idleness  of  grief.  She  could  not 
occupy  her  hands  or  her  thoughts ;  her  eyes  roamed 
over  the  dreary  scene  without,  and  were  less  pained 
than  when  they  rested  on  the  ordinary  and  famil 
iar  things  within.  Her  door  was  fastened.  There 
was  no  danger  of  intrusion  :  the  household  orders 
were  given ;  Lucy  and  Honor  would  respect  her 
haggard  looks.  She  leaned  wearily  against  the 
window  and  gazed  out.  The  only  feeling  that 
was  not  distinctly  painful  was  that  she  would  be 
let  alone,  that  nothing  would  be  required  of  her, 
that  in  a  certain  dead  way  she  could  rest.  Sud 
denly  she  saw  an  approaching  vehicle  turn  in  at 
the  gate.  It  was  one  of  a  shabby  class  of  hacks 
that  waited  about  the  depot,  and  sometimes 
brought  chance  visitors  from  the  train.  Who 
could  be  coming  ?  Slie  rose  from  her  seat. 

Before  the  cab  was  near  enough  for  her  to  see 
any  one  in  it,  she  had  made  up  her  mind  whom 


30  PHCEBE. 

it  contained.  From  the  window  she  could  see  it 
drive  up  to  the  door,  and  could  see  who  alighted. 

The  visitor  was  a  middle-aged  woman,  rather 
slight,  dressed  in  black,  a  little  shabby.  She  wore 
a  close,  old-wornany  bonnet,  from  which  a  limp 
black  veil  hung,  tied  under  the  chin,  in  the  fash 
ion  of  twenty  years  before.  She  got  out,  and  in 
a  tremulous,  wavering  manner  looked  at  the  door 
and  then  at  the  driver.  At  last  she  decided  (if 
that  might  be  called  a  decision  which  seemed  the 
result  of  inability  to  see  anything  else  to  do)  to 
ring  the  bell,  which  was  promptly  answered* 
Then  she  went  back  to  the  cabman,  and  took  out 
her  purse  to  pay  him.  Her  hands  trembled  very 
much ;  she  had  difficulty  in  making  the  change, 
or  in  understanding  what  his  charge  was.  Her 
gloves  were  rather  loose,  and  a  good  deal  creased 
about  the  fingers.  They  were  of  foxy  black,  and 
had  probably  been  her  best  gloves  for  a  number 
of  years.  Because  of  their  clumsy  size,  or  per 
haps  because  she  was  not  accustomed  to  wearing 
them,  she  could  not  manage  the  small  change  ; 
some  of  it  rolled  upon  the  ground.  The  trim 
maid  came  forward,  and,  smiling  superciliously, 
picked  it  up  for  her ;  the  cabman  smiled  a  little, 
too,  and  looked  at  her  curiously.  At  last  it  was 
all  settled,  and  the  visitor  followed  the  maid  into 
the  house.  In  a  moment  more  came  a  knock  upon 
her  door.  "  A  person,  madam,  asking  for  you." 

Yes,  she  knew  it.     She  was  getting  ready  for 


WIDOW  HOLDEN.  31 

the  person ;  that  is,  all  the  evil  in  her  was  dress 
ing  itself  to  appear,  and  she  seemed  to  be  turning 
to  ice  and  granite  to  go  down  to  meet  her.  As  she 
went  down  the  stairs  she  saw  that  the  visitor  had 
been  left  in  the  hall,  sitting  on  a  chair  near  the 
library  door.  The  woman  looked  up,  and  rose 
agitatedly. 

Though  the  house  was  not  a  grand  one,  by  any 
means,  it  had  a  good  staircase  and  a  wide  hall. 
"  Mamma  looks  like  a  lady  in  a  story-book  when 
she  comes  down  the  stairs  with  a  long  dress  on," 
Honor  used  to  say. 

"  Will  you  not  come  in  by  the  fire  ? "  asked 
Mrs.  Crittenden,  as  she  passed  by  her  visitor,  and, 
entering  the  library,  shut  the  door  after  them,  and 
gave  her  a  chair. 

"  You  won't  be  likely  to  know  who  I  am,"  began 
the  stranger,  in  a  voice  which  she  could  scarcely 
control. 

"  I  can  imagine,"  said  the  other,  looking  at  her 
coldly. 

"  How  ?    You  know,  then  ?   You  have  heard  ?  " 

"  I  know  you  are  probably  from  Maiden.  I  have 
not  heard  your  name." 

"  It  is  Holden.  He  was  of  the  Holdens  of  Greene 
County,  related  to  the  Waterburys  on  the  moth 
er's  side.  His  folks  are  looked  up  to  all  about 
our  place." 

And  a  faint  flicker  of  pride  was  indicated  in 
her  manner,  washed  out  in  the  next  instant  by  a 
rush  of  recollection. 


32  PHCEBE. 

"He?" 

"  My  husband,  I  mean.  He  has  been  dead  these 
twenty  years.  I  thought  you  knew  about  it,  may 
be.  My  girl  never  saw  her  father.  She  was  born 
six  months  after  I  buried  him." 

"  I  did  not  know  anything  about  the  —  circum 
stances  of  your  life." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  know !  "  cried  the  poor 
woman,  unable  to  endure  the  slow  torture  of  this 
manner.  "  I  have  seen  a  great  deal  of  trouble  in 
my  life,  —  death  and  sickness,  and  hard  enough 
work  to  get  along ;  and  my  own  people  are  poor, 
—  I  don't  deny  it,  —  and  things  ain't  with  us  as 
they  used  to  be.  But  there's  one  thing  I  can  say: 
this  sort  of  trouble,  this,  this,  is  new  among  us. 
It 's  the  first  time  that  one  of  us  could  n't  hold 
our  heads  up  among  decent  people.  I  thought 
I  'd  had  trouble  before,  but  —  but "  — 

And  the  poor  woman  struggled  with  a  handker 
chief  that  lay  deep  down  in  a  low  and  very  full 
pocket,  and  when  she  got  it  out  put  it  before  her 
eyes.  This  action  brought  out  in  high  relief  the 
baggy  gloves.  I  am  sorry  to  say,  none  of  these 
details  were  lost  on  her  hostess,  who  sat  watching 
her  rigidly.  The  face  that  was  revealed,  when  at 
last  the  stranger  took  the  handkerchief  and  the 
gloves  out  of  prominence,  and  essayed  to  speak, 
was  a  sensitive,  not  unrefined  one.  It  was  quite 
possible  to  fancy  she  had  once  been  a  pretty  wom 
an,  though  hard  work  and  the  unjust  burden  of 


WIDOW  UOLDEN.  33 

American  lower-class  life  had  aged  her  prematurely. 
She  was  probably  not  very  much  older  than  the 
more  favored  woman  who  was  passing  judgment  on 
her,  but  a  careless  observer  would  have  said  there 
was  at  least  a  difference  of  fifteen  years  in  their 
ages.  Her  skin  was  dried  and  brown,  a  thousand 
fine  wrinkles  networked  it ;  her  eyes  looked  tired 
and  old,  and  as  if  they  had  shed  endless  tears ;  her 
mouth  was  sensitive  and  weak.  She  was  timid,  dis 
trustful  of  herself.  One  could  not  help  seeing  what 
a  fierce  convulsion  must  have  been  needed  to  drive 
her  out  of  her  homely  seclusion  to  face  cold  and 
unfriendly  strangers.  But  Mrs.  Crittenden  did 
not  feel  sorry  for  her.  She  hated  her.  I  am  sorry 
to  have  to  say  this  of  the  woman  who  kept  her 
boy's  picture  under  the  cross  on  her  prayer-desk ; 
and  who  for  forty-two  amiable  years  had  been  the 
admiration  of  her  neighbors  for  her  charity  and 
tenderness ;  and  who,  better  than  all,  had  made  up 
her  mind  to  do  right  in  this  cruel  matter.  Per 
haps  the  last  bit  of  evil  was  coming  out  of  her 
in  this  struggle ;  perhaps,  if  she  had  done  this 
blamelessly,  she  would  have  been  too  perfect  to 
be  required  to  walk  further  among  the  thorns 
and  flints  of  this  bewildering  world.  Perhaps  — 
but  there  is  no  use  in  speculation.  She  had  turned 
hard  and  cold,  and,  so  far  from  pitying  her  adver 
sary,  felt  a  sort  of  satisfaction  in  knowing  that 
she  suffered. 

"I've  —  I've  come  to  see  you  about  this,  but 
3 


34  PHCEDE. 

she  does  n't  know  it.  She  would  n't  have  let  me 
do  it  if  she  'd  known." 

"  She  ?  "  interrogated  Mrs.  Crittenden,  who  re 
fused  to  recognize  pronouns. 

"  Phoabe,  my  daughter." 

The  lady  shuddered.  Phcebe,  —  that  was  a  name 
to  bring  into  the  family  annals !  Her  only  associa 
tions  with  the  name  were,  that  it  had  belonged  to 
a  greyhound  of  her  brother's,  and  also  to  an  old 
mulatto  cook,  very  stout  and  of  much  good-humor, 
who  used  to  give  her  doughnuts  when  she  was  a 
child.  Phoebe  !  Well,  that  was  a  very  small  mat 
ter.  She  waited  for  her  visitor  to  go  on. 

"  She  would  have  said  it  would  n't  do  any  good. 
She  would  have  kept  me  back." 

"  I  think,  if  you  '11  excuse  my  saying  so,  she 
would  have  been  quite  right  about  it." 

The  color  flushed  into  the  dried,  brown  cheeks. 
"  I  did  n't  know  you  would  be  so  hard  to  talk  to," 
she  said.  "  I  thought,  being  a  woman,  and  having 
daughters  of  your  own  "  — 

"  Oh,  my  daughters,  —  we  will  not  talk  of  them, 
if  you  please." 

The  thrust  was  not  lost  upon  the  stranger,  and 
the  agitated  color  spread  again  over  her  face. 

"  You  feel  very  safe  about  them  "  —  she  began. 

"  I  said,  we  would  not  talk  about  them,  if  you 
please." 

"  No,  I  did  n't  come  to  talk  about  them.  I  don't 
know  how  you  've  brought  up  your  children,  or 


WIDOW  HOLDEN.  35 

whether  it 's  your  fault  that  other  people  suffer  by 
them.  Girls  are  not  so  different  from  boys.  Sin 
is  sin.  And  in  our  part  of  the  country  we  don't 
think  our  girls  too  fine  to  mention,  and  in  the  same 
breath  let  our  boys  go  free,  when  they've  broke 
the  laws  of  God  and  man." 

"  I  'm  afraid,  in  Maiden,  you  are  not  very  care 
ful  in  the  education  of  your  girls." 

A  passionate  answer  rose  to  the  woman's  lips, 
but  again  the  tide  of  recollection  swept  over  her, 
and  made  her  silent. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  went  on  her  tormentor,  "  that 
you  give  them  too  much  liberty,  and  do  not  teach 
them  to  respect  themselves.  A  woman's  position 
is  very  different  from  a  man's." 

"  We  teach  them  out  of  the  same  Bible !  "  cried 
the  poor  mother,  trembling  with  the  vehemence  of 
her  feeling.  "  What 's  sin  for  one  is  sin  for  the 
other.  There  ain't  twenty  commandments,  one 
set  for  one  and  one  for  the  other,  but  only  the  ten 
that 's  stood  all  these  ages,  and  served  for  men  and 
women  both.  That's  the  way  we  read  Scripture 
in  Maiden." 

"  Maiden  is  a  small  place,"  said  her  hostess, 
coldly. 

"  If  it  is,  it 's  a  God-fearing  place." 

"Ah?    Among  the  men,  you  mean?" 

"  Yes,  among  men  and  women  both,  though 
you  do  jeer  at  me  for  my  girl's  misfortune," 
groaned  the  stranger,  turning  away  her  head,  and 


36  PH(EBE. 

beating  nervously  with  her  gloved  hands  upon  her 
lap. 

"  Your  girl's  misfortune,  and  my  boy's  sin,  —  is 
that  the  way  they  put  it  in  Maiden  ?  With  us  — 
in  the  world,  I  mean  —  it  goes  just  the  other  way. 
It 's  a  misfortune,  unlucky,  you  know.  It 's  rather 
a  disadvantage  to  a  young  man,  but  nothing  per 
manent.  It  doesn't  injure  him  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world.  He  gets  over  it,  he  marries,  he  goes  on  as 
if  nothing  had  happened." 

"  He  shan't !  "  cried  the  poor  creature,  rising  in 
her  feebleness,  and  putting  her  hand  out  in  her 
impotent  wrath.  "  He  shall  feel  it.  It  shall  hurt 
him.  My  girl  shan't  be  the  only  one  to  suffer." 

"  How  will  you  manage  it  ?  You  can  hurt  him 
to  the  extent  of  a  few  dollars  "  — 

"  We  don't  want  your  dollars.  You  can  keep 
3'our  dollars,  —  wicked,  hard  people  that  you  are. 
But  we  will  have  our  revenge,  —  we  will  have  our 
revenge." 

"  How  ?  Pray  tell  me  how.  Calm  yourself. 
We  might  as  well  talk  this  over  quietly.  It  is 
very  bitter  to  both  of  us,  no  doubt.  Such  things 
are  trying  to  the  temper  and  to  the  feelings. 
Sit  down  again,  if  you  please.  There  is  nothing 
gained  by  this  sort  of  excitement,  as  you  must 
see." 

She  sat  down,  involuntarily  obedient  to  her  su 
perior. 

"  When  I  tell  you  there  is  nothing  that  you  can 


WIDOW  H OLDEN.  37 

do  beyond  applying  for  some  pecuniary  salve,  I  tell 
you  the  truth.  The  very  pillars  of  society  rest  on 
woman's  purity.  If  there  were  any  looseness  per 
mitted  about  that,  what  would  become  of  family 
honor  ?  It  is  hard  that  it  should  be  so,  but  this 
law  is  as  old  as  society  itself.  We  have  to  make 
up  our  minds  to  take  things  as  they  are.  Men  are 
permitted  license  that  women  cannot  take.  Soci 
ety  has  to  protect  itself,  and  that 's  the  way  it  goes 
to  work  to  do  it.  Its  laws  are  hard  upon  women 
who  sin,  —  very  hard,  I  must  admit." 

"  I  don't  care  about  the  laws  of  society,"  moaned 
the  poor  mother.  "  I  care  about  what  the  Scrip 
ture  says.  You  know  what  the  Scripture  says 
about  —  about  "  — 

And  she  hung  her  head.  It  was  new  to  think  of 
her  girl  as  of  one  at  whom  the  stones  of  the  Jew 
ish  mob  might  have  been  cast.  She  was  just  get 
ting  acquainted  with  her  grief,  which  was  always 
presenting  fresh  and  unexpected  phases. 

"  The  world,  you  know,  does  n't  concern  itself 
about  the  rules  of  Scripture.  This  thing  always 
has  been  and  always  will  be  so.  The  world  casts 
out  and  degrades  the  woman  who  sins,  and  takes 
back  into  favor  her  partner,  and  does  the  best  for 
him  she  can.  I  'm  not  saying  it 's  right,  but  it 's 
so." 

"  God  will  punish  him ! "  cried  the  woman. 
"  God  won't  let  him  go  off  free." 

"  Ah  !  very  likely  not.    There  you  may  be  right. 


38  PI  HE  BE. 

And  that 's  what  you  '11  have  to  rest  upon.  For 
you  can't  do  anything  about  his  punishment,  be 
lieve  me." 

"  I  'd  better  not  have  come.  I  thought  —  you 
would  be  different.  I  didn't  know  you'd  brought 
him  up  that  way.  I  don't  wonder  now,  — I  don't 
wonder  in  the  least." 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  our  children  do  not  always 
illustrate  our  teachings.  I  suppose  your  daugh 
ter,  now,  was  brought  up  according  to  the  theories 
you  Ve  mentioned  ?  " 

"  She  was  brought  up  after  a  godly  sort.  Her 
grandfather  was  a  minister.  Her  father's  folks 
were  all  great  hands  for  meeting.  My  people 
were  n't  that  kind,  but  I  brought  her  up  as  I 
knew  he'd  have  wanted  her  to  be  brought  up. 
I  did  my  best.  I  never  let  her  stay  home  from 
Sunday-school,  rain  or  shine.  She  got  a  prize  for 
reading  the  Bible  through  three  times  in  one  year, 
when  she  was  only  twelve  years  old.  She  knew 
all  the  kings  of  Israel  by  heart,  and  there  was  n't 
a  river  or  a  mountain  on  any  of  the  Scripture 
maps  that  she  couldn't  put  her  finger  on  in  half  a 
minute  ;  and  there  was  n't  a  beetle  or  a  bug  of  the 
Holy  Land  that  she  could  n't  tell  you  all  about, 
before  she  was  turned  of  ten." 

"  Ah !  And  yet  you  see,  hard  as  you  tried, 
her  education  has  not  been  a  practical  success." 

"  Her  education  !  "  cried  the  poor  woman.  "  No 
body  can  say  I  did  n't  do  everything  I  could  for 


WIDOW  HOLDEN.  39 

her.  I  've  put  up  with  being  alone  from  Monday 
morning  to  Friday  night  for  the  last  four  years, 
while  she  's  been  away  at  Brixton  at  the  high 
school.  I  never  let  her  do  a  stroke  of  work.  I  've 
sewed  for  her,  and  washed  for  her,  and  mended 
for  her,  and  starved  myself  to  pay  her  board  and 
schooling.  And  she  did  me  credit,  —  yes,  she  did 
me  credit.  She  was  the  head  of  her  class,  and  she 
never  lost  a  day  all  the  four  years  at  Brixton. 
Her  teacher  in  algebra  said  he  'd  never  had  such 
a  hand  for  the  higher  mathematics.  And  the 
day  of  the  exhibition  she  did  a  proposition  on  the 
blackboard  before  them  all.  And  everybody  was 
talking  about  her.  No,  no,  there  can't  be  any 
thing  thrown  up  against  me  about  her  education, 
music  and  all.  Heaven  be  thanked  for  that !  " 

If  there  had  been  anything  needed  to  harden 
Mrs.  Crittenden's  heart,  it  was  this  picture:  a 
pert,  vulgar,  higher-mathematical,  over-educated, 
under-bred  country  girl.  The  geography  of  Pal 
estine  and  the  propositions  on  the  blackboard  ob 
literated  the  last  touch  of  pity. 

"  I  think  you  would  have  done  better,"  she  said, 
serenely,  "  to  keep  her  at  home  with  you,  teach 
ing  her  to  do  housework,  and  be  a  modest,  well- 
conducted  girl." 

"  I  don't  say  but  I  should.  I  never  felt  that  it 
was  right  that  I  should  be  left  to  bring  her  up 
alone,  with  nobody  to  look  to.  I  was  not  the 
kind  to  be  left  alone,  to  be  at  the  head  about 


40  PHCEBE. 

things.  Perhaps  God  knows  what  He  took  him 
away  for  when  we  'd  only  been  married  inside  of 
a  year  ;  I  could  never  see." 

And  she  rocked  herself  backward  and  forward 
for  a  few  moments,  while  a  bitter  look  came  over 
her  recently  tearful,  pleading  face. 

"  But  you,"  she  said  at  last,  —  "you  had  your 
husband  to  help  you.  You  had  a  plenty,  and  all 
ways  of  bringing  him  up  to  choose  from.  Why 
did  n't  you  do  better  with  your  boy  ?  You  twit 
me.  But  I  'd  like  to  know  which  has  the  most  to 
be  ashamed  of,  you*  or  me.  I  'd  like  to  know  how 
we  'd  stand  before  the  judgment  of  God.  I  don't 
care  about  men.  I  don't  care  about  their  judg 
ment  now.  But  I  tell  you,  I  'd  rather  be  the 
mother  of  my  Phoebe,  with  all  Maiden  pointing 
their  finger  at  her,  than  the  mother  of  your  bad, 
black-hearted,  fair-spoken  son,  that  '11  go  scot-free, 
and  never  be  the  worse  for  it,  you  say." 

She  panted  ;  this  flood  of  words  was  as  unnat 
ural  to  her  as  the  agony  that  brought  it  forth  was 
new. 

"  I  don't  see  that  there  is  much  to  choose,  in  the 
matter  of  pride,"  said  Mrs.  Crittenden.  "  But  that 
is  neither  here  nor  there.  I  suppose  we  must  bake 
as  we  have  brewed,  and  it  seems  we  have  neither 
of  us  brewed  very  well.  It  does  n't  help  me  that 
you  have  an  unworthy  daughter,  nor  does  it  help 
you  that  I  have  an  unworthy  son.  I  do  not  see 
what  can  be  gained  by  talking  of  it  further." 


WIDOW  IIOLDEN.  41 

"  There  is  nothing  gained  ! "  cried  the  woman, 
starting  to  her  feet.  "  I  ought  n't  to  have  come. 
I  —  I  —  might  have  known  —  I  'm  a  poor  hand 
to  talk.  Lawyer  Brent  would  have  come,  but  I 
would  n't  let  him.  I  was  'most  wild.  I  thought 
I  could  make  you  see  what  was  right ;  but  it 
seems  he  '11  have  to  come,  after  all." 

She  pulled  her  shawl  about  her  throat,  folded 
her  trembling  hands  over  it,  and  went  towards 
the  door. 

"  I  would  advise  you,  for  your  own  sake,  not  to 
send  the  lawyer,"  said  the  lady,  steadily. 

44 1  shall  do  what  they  tell  me,"  she  cried,  open 
ing  the  door  that  led  into  the  hall,  "  if  I  ever  get 
home  to  tell  them  about  this.  I  did  n't  believe  any 
body  could  be  like  you.  I  ought  to  have  listened 
to  'em.  I  —  I  —  never  will  trouble  you  again." 

"  Stay,"  said  Mrs.  Crittenden,  following  her. 
44  I  have  something  to  say  to  you.  Come  back." 

But  the  woman  pushed  on  to  the  front  door 
and  opened  it,  and  would  not  look  back,  much  less 
come  back,  but  with  hurried,  uncertain  steps  and 
swaying  figure  crossed  the  shelter  of  the  porch, 
and  passed  out  into  the  rain  and  mud.  Mrs.  Crit 
tenden  called  her,  eagerly,  loudly.  The  widow 
shook  her  head,  and  did  not  look  around,  but 
went  wildly  splashing  through  the  pools  that  stood 
in  the  road,  as  if  she  did  not  see  them,  and  not 
pulling  her  veil  doAvn  to  protect  her  face,  as  if  she 
did  not  feel  the  rain  that  fell  upon  it. 


42  PHCEBE. 

"  Come  back  !  " 

It  was  easy  to  say  Come  back,  but  how  to  get 
her  to  do  it  ?  If  she  ran  across  the  lawn  in  her 
slippers  and  morning  dress,  the  household  would 
be  roused,  there  would  be  a  scene,  everything 
which  she  had  planned  would  be  destroyed.  If 
she  sent  a  servant  after  her,  she  would  perhaps 
refuse  to  come,  and  certainly  would  say  something 
that  would  set  the  servants  talking.  No,  there 
was  nothing  for  it  but  to  let  her  go,  uncomforted 
by  what  in  the  end  she  had  meant  to  tell  her. 

Mrs.  Crittenden  doubted  the  woman's  ability 
to  get  away  alone  ;  she  saw  that,  even  as  she 
reached  the  road,  she  looked  wildly  up  and  down  ; 
it  seemed  but  a  happy  chance  that  she  turned  in 
the  direction  of  the  depot.  It  would  take  twenty 
minutes  to  order  and  get  out  the  carriage,  and 
even  then  there  was  little  hope  of  overtaking  her. 
If,  however,  Mrs.  Crittenden  did  overtake  her 
there  would  be  that  said  that  the  coachman  ought 
not  to  hear  before  she  would  consent  to  return. 
If  they  met  at  the  depot,  all  Marrowfat  would 
know  the  story  before  night.  The  woman's  nat 
ural  shyness  might  keep  her  silent  about  her  sor 
row,  if  no  one  spoke  to  her  or  questioned  her. 
But  in  her  present  over-wrought  state,  the  sight 
of  her  hard-hearted  hostess  would,  without  doubt, 
open  the  flood  gates  again. 

No,  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  shut  the 
door  and  go  and  warm  herself,  chilled  to  the  mar- 


WIDOW  HOLDEN.  43 

row  by  the  raw  wind,  and  to  trust  that  the  unwel 
come  guest  would  get  safely  away  by  the  twelve 
o'clock  train,  locking  the  secret  in  her  breast. 
She  knew  she  had  been  cruel  and  cold ;  she  felt 
sharp  compunction ;  but  she  had  meant  to  be  just, 
and  to  convince  her  that  whatever  might  be  done 
would  be  done  of  free  grace  and  no  compulsion 
from  outside.  She  certainly  never  meant  to  let  her 
go  away  without  this  tangible  relief.  She  knew 
that  she  scorned  and  hated  her  and  her  child,  but 
the  knowledge  that  she  meant  to  do  right  by 
them  as  far  as  in  her  lay,  even  to  the  gross  dam 
age  of  her  own  best  beloved,  took  away  the  self- 
condemnation  that  would  have  followed  the  hatred 
in  any  other  case.  It  all  seemed  a  piece  of  her  hid 
eous  trial,  —  hideous,  hideous,  like  a  nightmare ; 
revolting,  unlightened.  She  went  up  to  her  room, 
and  sat  down  in  the  window,  and  looked  out  again, 
watching.  May  be  the  woman's  strength  would 
fail  her,  and  she  would  fall  down,  and  they  would 
find  from  whence  she  had  come,  and  would  bring 
her  back.  May  be  even  now  she  was  pouring  her 
incoherent  tale  into  the  ears  of  some  crowd 
gathered  around  her  prostrate  body.  May  be  the 
limp  veil  was  even  now  being  dried  before  the 
fire  of  the  first  gossip  of  the  town  whose  house 
she  had  to  pass  on  her  way  to  the  depot.  It  was 
an  unusual  sight  in  Marrowfat,  —  a  respectable 
woman  out  in  such  a  drenching,  all-day  rain,  with 
out  any  protection  but  a  limp  veil  and  a  thin  black 


44  PIIQIBE. 

shawl.  When,  however,  no  news  came,  and  the 
distant  whistle  sounded  at  twelve  o'clock,  there 
seemed  a  reasonable  hope  that  the  train  bore  away 
with  it  the  importunate  widow  and  her  ugly  story. 
"Mamma,"  cried  Honor,  "was  that  shabby 
body  a  candidate  for  your  Widow's  Society  ?  You 
might  have  lent  her  an  umbrella,  if  you  did  n't  put 
her  on  your  list." 


CHAPTER  IV. 
JUST  A  WOMAN'S  NOTION. 

"THAT'S  a  woman's  notion, — just  a  woman's 
notion,"  said  Mr.  Crittenden,  impatiently,  pushing 
back  his  chair  and  rising.  This  was  the  last,  the 
very  last  word  of  many  spoken  in  the  midnight 
silence  of  a  country  house,  when  even  the  ticking 
of  the  lowest-voiced  clock  was  audible.  The  fire 
had  died  down,  having  been  replenished  many 
times  while  they  talked.  She  was  satisfied  to  have 
it  die  down,  for  she  knew  her  husband's  gesture 
was  final,  and  that  there  was  no  more  to  say  to 
night.  And  she  was  not  ill  satisfied  with  the  result 
of  this,  the  last  of  many  long  conferences.  Though 
he  had  not  seemed  to  acquiesce  in  what  she  had 
urged  upon  him  any  more  at  the  end  than  at  the 
beginning,  she  felt  that  his  objections  were  soften 
ing,  that  he  was  harboring  the  plan,  that  he  had 
given  it  place,  at  least,  in  his  consideration.  She 
knew  very  well  that  in  this  affair  his  convictions 
had  never  been  unalterable,  while  hers  had  been. 
And  indeed,  our  conquests  are  generally  regu 
lated  by  the  strength  of  our  convictions.  From 
missionary  work  up,  it  is  a  matter  of  conviction, 


46  PHCEBE. 

whether  we  succeed  or  not.  The  world  belongs  to 
the  brave,  to  the  stout  in  his  purpose,  to  the  clear 
in  his  seeing,  to  the  undoubting  of  his  path. 

Mrs.  Crittenden  was  not  very  self-willed  in  do 
mestic  interests.  She  did  not  have  her  own  way 
invariably.  The  laundry  tubs  were  a  standing 
grievance  to  her.  The  new  kitchen  floor  was 
put  in  entirely  in  opposition  to  her  judgment.  In 
many  points  about  the  education  of  the  children, 
she  had  silently  surrendered  her  opinion  to  a  hus 
band  who  was  not  tyrannical,  but  who  had  a 
man's  preference  for  the  emanations  of  his  own 
brain.  She  was  just  enough  to  recognize  his  right 
to  do  as  he  wanted  to  —  sometimes.  She  bided 
her  time,  and  this  was  the  time  she  had  been  bid 
ing,  evidently.  For  it  needed  all  the  memory  of 
her  many  concessions,  as  well  as  all  the  strength  of 
her  strong  convictions,  to  make  him  yield  in  this 
most  vital  matter.  He  was  a  very  fair  modern 
Christian,  always  on  the  side  of  right  in  public  and 
social  matters.  But  when  it  came  to  such  a  step 
as  this,  it  appeared  that  his  religion  had  been  con 
siderably  weakened  by  the  current  of  worldly  life 
that  had  flowed  so  near  it  ^or  so  long  a  time. 
The  banks  must  have  got  washed  down  a  good 
deal  in  some  places,  in  the  course  of  fifty  years 
of  such  dangerous  juxtaposition. 

A  woman's  notion  !  What  was  just  a  woman's 
notion,  in  this  case  ?  Briefly  this  :  that  this  son 
of  theirs,  who  had  sinned,  should  pay  the  penalty 


JUST  A  WOMAN'S  NOTION.  47 

of  his  sin,  and  make  reparation  for  it  in  the  only 
way  possible  to  him  ;  that  he  should  save  his  un 
born  innocent  child  from  shame,  and  the  woman, 
who  was  at  least  no  more  guilty  than  he,  from  life 
long  degradation. 

"  A  pretty  mess,"  he  said,  "  society  would  be  in, 
if  all  were  of  your  thinking.  What  sort  of  blood 
would  you  get  into  our  veins?  What  sort  of 
mixtures  would  you  make  in  families  ?  " 

"That  is  not  any  concern  of  ours.  Right  is 
right,  if  the  heavens  fall." 

"  You  are  putting  a  knife  to  the  throat  of  the 
boy  ;  let  me  tell  you  that.     You  might  as  well  kill 
him  as  make  him  do  this  thing." 
"  I  have  considered  all  that." 
"In  a  few  years,  if  you  don't  force  him  into 
this,  he  may  steady  down,  marry  well,  and  be  a 
credit  to  us." 

"  With  that  sin  on  his  soul,  and  that  child  an 
outcast?  I  don't  want  such  credit." 

"  I  have  told  you  I  will  provide  for  the  child." 
"  You  cannot  provide  it  a  name  and  a  place  in 
the  world." 

"  That  is  fine  talking.  Its  place  in  the  world 
would  not  have  been  very  grand,  with  that  low 
bred  woman  for  a  mother.  I  tell  you  I  have  the 
poorest  opinion  of  those  people.  You  don't  know 
what  you  are  about.  You  have  let  a  sentimental 
fancy  run  away  with  you." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  have  looked  our  duty  in  the 


48  PH(EBE. 

face  from  the  first,  and  it  is  bitter  as  gall  to  me. 
I  know  every  detail.  I  have  counted  what  it  will 
cost  us  to  the  fraction  of  a  penny,  to  the  fraction 
of  a  pang.  I  know  that  I  am  giving  up  the  boy's 
future  as  far  as  this  world  goes.  I  know  that  I 
am  injuring  our  daughters'  prospects.  I  know 
that  I  am  damaging  very  seriously  our  material 
prosperity  ;  that  I  am  putting  a  yoke  upon  us  as  a 
family  ;  that  I  am  pulling  all  those  dearest  to  me 
down  to  a  lower  level  in  the  eyes  of  the  world. 
But  —  I  ask  it,  all  the  same.  Edward,  it  must  be 
done.  God  knows  I  am  not  fanatic,  I  am  not  en 
thusiastic.  The  happy  and  approved  life  we  have 
been  leading  has  been  as  sweet  to  me  as  it  has 
been  to  you.  I  only  knew  how  sweet  when  I  saw 
it  being  broken  up.  I  like  a  high  position.  I  like 
the  favor  of  the  world.  I  have  found  out  only  now 
how  boundless  my  ambition  has  been  for  Barry, 
where  I  have  always  put  him  in  my  thoughts.  I 
know  if  he  makes  this  marriage  he  steps  out  of 
notice,  —  he  becomes  the  obscurest  and  most  or 
dinary  person.  I  know  that  the  girls  will  suffer 
in  a  thousand  ways  from  the  loss  of  his  popular 
ity,  and  from  the  difficulty  that  will  be  made  in 
receiving  his  wife.  I  know  that  our  income  will 
be  barely  sufficient ;  that  we  shall  be  heavily  bur 
dened  for  many  years,  perhaps,  in  the  support  of 
his  young  family.  I  tell  you  frankly,  I  see  no 
bright  side  to  it.  It  fills  me  with  dismay.  I  wish 
I  could  see  any  other  way  out  of  it,  but,  Edward, 


JUST  A    WOMAN'S  NOTION.  49 

there  is  none.  He  must  marry  her ;  he  must  do 
•what  is  right.  We  must  trust  Heaven  for  the  rest. 
Suffering  is  better  than  sin.  This  is  a  heavy  bur 
den  ;  but  what  would  be  the  burden  of  a  wrong 
unrighted,  a  debt  uncanceled,  all  through  our  lives, 
tainting  everything  ?  I  don't  want  any  such  pros 
perity.  I  don't  .want  any  child's  cry,  any  wom 
an's  moan,  to  haunt  my  sleep.  Let  us  do  right, 
and  bear  what  comes  of  it.  Let  us  be  brave  about 
it.  Life  is  short.  Why  should  we  care  so  much? 
If  the  thing  is  right,  we  've  got  to  do  it." 

And  so  on  through  hours  of  midnight  fireside 
talk.  Sometimes,  I  am  afraid,  her  husband  said, 
Stuff  and  nonsense  ;  sometimes,  I  am  afraid,  he 
walked  about  the  room  with  his  hands  driven  deep 
down  in  his  pockets,  and  his  forehead  wrinkled 
with  the  angriest  opposition.  But  it  was  not  in 
the  nature  of  things  that  such  conviction  should 
fail  to  convict.  "  Only  believe."  The  result  was 
certain,  nor  was  the  process  very  slow.  Within  a 
week  the  following  conditions  were  settled  upon :  — 

Mrs.  Crittenden  was  not  to  write  to  her  son, 
nor  in  any  way  influence  him  or  communicate 
with  him.  The  father  was  to  write  him,  more  or 
less  sternly  (more,  probably),  about  the  disgrace 
and  dishonor  he  had  been  to  them,  but  putting 
before  him  the  choice  between  two  courses.  He 
could,  if  he  chose,  marry  the  girl  at  once,  remain 
where  he  was  for  the  winter,  and  in  the  spring 
come  home  .with  her,  in  which  case  his  father 
4 


50  PHCEBE. 

would  take  him  into  his  office,  allow  him  a  salary 
of  two  thousand  dollars,  and  expect  hard  work  of 
him.  He  would  give  him  as  a  home  a  small  cot 
tage  on  the  place,  that  had  been  hitherto  occu 
pied  by  the  gardener.  He  could  promise  him  no 
further  assistance,  and  warned  him  that  his  life 
would  be  of  the  hardest  and  hunj blest  nature. 

As  an  alternative,  he  could  go  at  once,  within  a 
week  of  receiving  this  letter,  to  China,  to  take  an 
inferior  position  in  a  large  mercantile  house  with 
which  his  father  had  influence,  where  he  must  at 
least  spend  the  rest  of  his  youth,  depending  wholly 
upon  his  own  exertions,  and  having  no  allowance 
from  his  father  beyond  his  passage  money  and  his 
necessary  outfit.  The  situation  was  secured,  if  he 
chose  to  take  it.  The  steamer  sailed  on  the  20th  ; 
a  stateroom  was  at  his  disposal.  The  letter  was 
short  and  business-like,  and  was  not  calculated  to 
leave  any  doubt  in  the  young  man's  mind  that  his 
misconduct  had  ruined  his  prospects  for  life,  and 
that  his  father  was  not  very  much  averse  to  see 
ing  him  well  out  of  the  way. 

Three  days  passed,  —  three  days  of  very  consid 
erable  anxiety  to  the  parents  who  waited  for  his 
answer.  China  or  Phoebe  ?  The  father  thought 
China ;  the  mother  believed  Phoebe.  The  great 
fear  the  mother  had  was  lest  he  should  be  driven 
by  his  pride  to  do  something  against  his  con 
science,  and  go  away,  stung  by  his  father's  curt 
dismissal  of  him  forever  from  the  family  life  and 


JUST  A    WOMAN'S  NOTION.  51 

by  her  silence.  But  she  had  promised  not  to 
write,  and  could  do  nothing  but  keep  her  promise. 
The  father  trusted  that  he  would  choose  his  free 
dom  ;  at  all  events,  if  he  had  a  repugnance  to  the 
woman,  he  had  that  door  to  escape  by.  A  pretty 
narrow  door,  to  be  sure,  and  none  too  inviting, 
but  he  had  it,  and  he  could  not  complain. 

At  last  an  answer  came,  curter  than  the  fa 
ther's,  and  as  business-like.  He  elected  Phoebe  and 
the  two  thousand  dollars  and  the  gardener's  cot 
tage  and  humble  pie  generally.  It  was  evident  to 
Mrs.  Oittenden  that  they  would  never  know  from 
him  whether  he  turned  his  back  upon  freedom  and 
adventure  because  of  his  conscience  or  bis  pride, 
his  love  of  Phoebe,  or  his  hatred  of  hard  work.  To 
feed  himself  had  not  been  Barry's  idea  of  happi 
ness  hitherto.  He  had  been  so  lovingly  fed,  he  had 
never  objected  to  the  process.  It  now  remained 
to  be  seen  whether  his  pride  would  interfere  with 
his  digestion,  or  whether  his  laziness  would  uproot 
his  pride.  His  letter  gave  no  evidence  of  a  pen 
itent  spirit.  He  desired  an  early  remittance  for 
present  expenses  ;  he  did  not  speak  of  his  mother, 
and  sent  no  message  to  his  sisters.  He  took  the 
attitude  of  an  equal  with  his  father ;  treated  the 
allowance  as  his  right,  and  made  the  whole  ar 
rangement  strictly  a  business  one. 

It  was  part  of  the  compact  between  the  parents 
that  in  writing  to  him  henceforth  his  mother 
should  not  allude  to  the  matter  otherwise  than  in 


52  PHCEBE. 

its  commonplace  aspect ;  that  she  should  bind  no 
burdens  on  his  conscience,  and  let  him  know  noth 
ing  of  the  conflict  that  he  had  occasioned  them. 
This  was  in  deference  to  the  father's  judgment 
that  she  had  always  enervated  him  by  her  sym 
pathy.  It  was  easy  to  agree  to  that,  when  she  was 
gaining  so  much  more  important  things ;  but  it 
was  not  so  easy  to  keep  to  it,  when  time  passed 
on,  and  each  letter  grew  colder  and  shorter,  and 
the  distance  between  them  lengthened. 

But  she  must  bide  her  time.  Spring  would 
come,  and  when  they  were  once  more  face  to  face 
the  ice  would  melt. 

When  the  letter  came  announcing  his  marriage, 
the  fact  had  to  be  communicated  to  his  sisters. 
The  young  girls  held  their  elder  brother  in  a  sort 
of  idolatry.  He  was  their  hero ;  they  had  both 
associated  him  very  intimately,  in  their  secret 
hearts,  with  their  own  future.  Lucy  was  prepared 
to  sacrifice  herself  to  him,  if  he  would  accept  her, 
and  to  live  unmarried  to  serve  him  and  to  further 
in  any  way  the  great  career  which  lay  before  him. 
Honor,  more  worldly,  dreamed  of  marrying  him 
to  some  one  of  great  wealth  and  beauty.  She  felt 
sure  the  lovely  being  would  have  a  brother  who 
would  be  her  own  fate  :  they  would  wander  to 
gether,  an  ideal  quartette,  through  lands  of  song 
and  picture,  they  would  build  houses  side  by  side, 
they  would  roll  in  wealth,  they  would  exult  in 
all  gifts  of  nature  and  of  fortune.  Poor  Honor  I 


JUST  A   WOMAN'S  NOTION.  53 

it  was  a  considerable  downfall  to  have  to  hear 
that  her  brother  was  already  married  to  a  young 
woman  living  in  a  country  village,  whose  name 
was  Phoebe,  and  who  probably  "did  up  "  her  own 
collars  and  cuffs,  if  not  the  more  bulky  portion  of 
the  family  "  wash."  Honor  was  scarlet  with  shame 
and  disappointment,  Lucy  white  with  hurt  feeling. 
There  were  sore  hearts  in  the  house  for  many 
days,  but  "young  flesh  heals  quick."  They  had 
been  spared,  wisely  or  unwisely,  all  but  the  fact 
that  he  had  marriecf  without  telling  his  sisters 
anything  about  it.  They  were  at  liberty  to  sup 
pose  that  everything  but  that  was  as  it  should  be. 
Lucy  healed  her  heart's  wound  by  reflecting  that 
such  absorbed  love  as  would  permit  him  to  forget 
their  existence  must  be  heroic.  She  dedicated 
herself  henceforth  to  the  care  of  his  children,  and 
to  the  building  up  of  the  fortune  which  he  had 
forgotten,  in  his  haste  ;  to  which  practical  end, 
she  discontinued  two  reviews  and  countermanded 
an  order  for  some  books  which  she  had  felt  very 
necessary  to  her  before  this  new  necessity  arose. 
This  gave  her  a  sense  of  having  risen  to  the  oc 
casion,  and  •  then  things  resumed  their  ordinary 
course.  Honor  soon  became  interested  in  her 
preparations  for  Christmas,  and  her  enthusiasm  for 
her  brother  being  cured,  she  reconstructed  her 
day-dreams,  leaving  him  out,  and  was,  all  things 
considered,  as  happy  as  before.  It  is  always  easy 
to  supply  vacancies  in  day-dreams. 


CHAPTER  V. 

WEARY'-FOOT    COMMON. 

BUT  while  the  young  girls  thus  happily  accom 
modated  themselves  to  the  change  in  the  family, 
their  elders  had  more  difficulty  in  reconciling  them 
selves  to  all  that  it  involved.  Mr.  Crittenden  was 
not  a  rich  man,  in  any  solid  sense.  His  profes 
sional  income  was  large,  but  so  were  his  expenses. 
He  had  felt  that  he  had  many  years  of  good  work 
in  him  yet,  and  up  to  this  time  he  had  not  taken 
very  heavily  the  anticipation  of  the  future  for  his 
family  if  those  years  should  be  denied  him.  Now, 
however,  anxiety  took  hold  upon  him  :  he  acknowl 
edged  that  the  easy  years  past  had  been  unwise. 
The  provision  for  one  family  was  inadequate,  and 
here  was  another  laid  upon  him.  He  refused  to  be 
lieve  that  Barry  would  ever  do  anything  for  him 
self.  Expenses  that"  before  had  seemed  necessary 
and  justifiable  now  fretted  and  galled  him.  He 
grew  nervous  and  irritable.  The  setting  off  two 
thousand  dollars  for  Barry's  use,  and  giving  up  the 
cottage  to  him  were  really  inconsiderable  sacrifices ; 
if  he  had  been  in  his  ordinary  health  and  spirits 
he  would  not  have  esteemed  them  heavy.  But  ap- 


WEARY-FOOT  COMMON.  55 

prehension  for  the  future  took  possession  of  him. 
It  was  not  unfounded  apprehension  ;  he  should 
have  had  it  long  before.  They  had  spent  too 
much  money.  The  proper  provision  had  not  been 
made  for  the  future  ;  but  that  was  not  Barry's 
fault,  and  should  not  have  been  laid  at  his  door. 
The  fact  was,  it  had  appeared  probable  to  both 
father  and  mother  that  Barry  would  step  into  a 
large  fortune  that  was  waiting  for  him  in  the  hand 
of  a  pretty  young  cousin,  who  had,  with  all  the 
rest  of  the  world,  seemed  entirely  devoted  to  him. 
They  had  not  talked  about  it  even  to  each  other, 
nor  schemed  about  it.  They  were  not  the  sort  of 
people  to  do  that.  But  in  the  secret  heart  of  each 
had  been  the  conviction  that  after  a  few  years  of 
liberty  Barry  would  settle  down  to  that,  and  be 
among  the  rich  men  of  his  day  without  over-ex 
ertion  of  brain  or  muscle.  It  changed  things  so 
entirely  to  think  of  his  needing  as  much  'or  more 
provision  than  his  sisters.  The  burden  grew  in 
tolerable.  Men  are  much  more  irrational  than 
women  when  they  get  off  their  balance.  They 
seem  unable  to  distinguish  between  necessary  and 
unnecessary  expenses.  Economy  with  Mr.  Critten- 
den  became  a  hair-cloth  shirt  without  grace.  The 
details  of  the  family  expenses  stuck  into  him  with 
so  many  sharp  points.  Every  bill  presented 
opened  a  chasm  of  ruin  before  them.  His  wife 
was  clear-sighted  enough  to  know  that  the  situa 
tion  was  not  very  seriously  changed  except  in  their 


56  PHCEBE. 

imaginations  ;  she  felt  that  the  only  good  in  it  was 
that  they  had  come  to  see,  before  it  was  quite  too 
late,  that  they  were  living  with  unwise  liberality. 
It  was  hard  that  it  should  have  happened  just 
when  the  girls  were  growing  up.  But  what  will 
you  ?  One  is  never  ready  for  discipline.  Like  a 
wise  woman  she  fitted  her  neck  to  the  yoke  and 
went  on  steadily,  retrenching,  soothing,  smoothing, 
enduring,  but  not  enjoying  the  process  more  than 
another. 

It  had  been  their  intention  to  spend  this  win 
ter  in  the  city,  to  give  Honor  the  advantage  of  bet 
ter  masters,  and  to  let  Lucy  have  her  first  glimpse 
of  the  gay  world.  It  had  been  talked  of  for 
months,  and  all  the  arrangements  made.  Every 
ten  minutes  one  or  the  other  of  the  young  girls 
said  something  about  it  in  some  way.  Honor  was 
wearing  her  old  walking-dress,  and  saving  the  new 
one  for  the  city.  Lucy  was  assorting  her  music, 
and  deciding  what  books  she  wanted  to  take  with 
her  ;  she  was  paying  her  last  visits  to  her  poor 
people,  and  making  out  a  list  of  what  they  would 
need  before  she  came  back  to  them.  It  was  one 
of  the  steps  on  her  new  path  of  discipline  that  the 
mother  least  enjoyed  telling  these  happy  young 
planners  that  they  would  have  to  stay  at  home 
and  unmake  their  plans  at  their  leisure.  She 
scarcely  knew  how  to  tell  them  ;  she  put  it  off 
from  day  to  day,  and  fretted  in  secret  over  it. 

"  Mamma,"  said  Honor,  tapping  at  her  door  on 


WEARY-FOOT  COMMON.  57 

the  afternoon  of  a  day  on  which  she  had  pledged 
herself  to  tell  them  the  bad  news  before  night,  — 
"  mamma,  may  I  come  in  ?  My  new  habit  has  just 
come  by  express.  I  put  it  on  for  you  to  see  if  I 
don't  look  —  very  nice  —  in  it." 

And,  pushing  open  the  door,  she  stood  on  the 
threshold,  looking  very  pretty  and  very  certain  of 
admiration,  in  a  new  riding-dress,  the  sight  of 
which  smote  the  mother  with  dismay.  In  the  pres 
sure  of  recent  events,  she  had  forgotten  all  about 
this  extravagance.  A  month  or  so  ago,  she  had 
taken  Honor  to  be  fitted  for  an  expensive  habit. 
The  bill ;  the  uselessness  of  the  dress  now,  since 
there  could  be  no  saddle-horse  bought,  and  no  rid 
ing-lessons  taken  ;  the  child's  disappointment ;  the 
pride  they  had  always  felt  in  her  graceful  riding ; 
the  unlikelihood  of  her  now  ever  having  that  in 
dulgence  again  during  her  girlhood,  —  all  mixed 
themselves  up  bitterly  in  her  thoughts,  and  she 
turned  sharply  away  from  the  sight  of  the  slender 
girl,  who  stood  with  one  hand  lifting  up  her  skirt, 
the  other  holding  back  the  door.  She  looked 
so  confident  of  her  mother's  fond  approval.  Her 
habit  was  perfect.  She  was  high-bred  looking, 
with  a  slight  figure,  soft,  blonde  hair,  nez  retroussS, 
delicate  coloring.  It  was  the  sort  of  figure  and 
face  that  belong  to  high  civilization,  that  demand 
wealth  and  costly  surroundings,  that  seem  out  of 
keeping  with  middle-class  life.  The  riding  habit 
had  cost  enormously,  —  Mrs.  Crittenden  remem- 


58  PH(EDE. 

bered,  sharply,  the  very  sum  ;  but  it  seemed,  even 
now,  as  if  it  belonged  to  her  of  right,  as  if  no  one 
would  ever  dream  of  ordering  anything  but  the 
best  for  that  young  aristocrat.  Thrift,  economy, 
self-denial,  —  none  of  these  fitted  Honor.  She 
would  be  nothing  if  she  had  not  her  right  setting, 
everything  if  she  had.  She  was  a  worldly  little  girl 
and  a  self-willed  little  girl,  but  infinitely  piquant 
and  winning.  The  mother  knew  of  sincere  depths 
below  the  glittering  surface,  and  had  meant  to 
wait  till  this  all  melted  in  the  sun  of  love.  Now 
she  felt  it  would  be  crashed  and  broken  by  the 
thwarting  of  circumstances,  and  she  could  not  an 
swer  for  the  consequences.  She  had  meant  Honor 
to  have  a  happy  girlhood.  It  was  easier  to  think  of 
Lucy  suffering.  Her  face  contracted  with  the  pain 
the  thought  gave  her.  She  had  a  momentary  feel 
ing  of  rebellion  and  anger.  Honor  started  and 
flushed  as  her  mother  turned  sharply  away. 

"  You  don't  care  to  see  it  ?  "  she  said,  straight 
ening  herself  up,  and  retreating  a  step. 

"  No,  I  am  busy.  I  cannot  attend  to  you  now." 
She  did  not  look  up ;  the  door  closed.  She  knew 
that  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  one  of  her  chil 
dren  had  come  to  her  for  sympathy  and  had  not 
got  it.  She  had  shut  out  poor  little  Honor,  and 
sent  her  away  wounded  and  angry.  She  did  not 
know  herself.  A  great  many  such  surprises  await 
us  on  our  road,  at  a  great  many  turns  of  which  we 
do  not  know  ourselves.  They  prevent  monotony 


WEARY-FOOT  COMMON.  59 

for  one  thing,  and  promote  humility  for  another. 
It  abases  pride  considerably  to  find  that  one's 
cherished  perfections  are  the  result  of  circum 
stances,  of  an  absence  of  provocation  to  be  imper 
fect.  What  one  thought  an  elevation  of  principle 
was  merely  an  elevation  of  income,  forbearance 
and  charity,  an  unimpaired  digestion,  indifference 
to  the  world,  an  abundance  of  its  benefits. 

The  winter  could  not  fail  to  be  a  trying  one. 
Though  the  young  girls  took  their  disappoint 
ment,  in  the  one  case  with  sweet  submission,  in 
the  other  with  stormy  but  short-lived  anger,  and 
though  the  family  life  moved  on  without  much  per 
ceptible  change,  all  felt,  in  one  way  or  another, 
the  darkening  of  that  light  that  had  always  shone 
from  the  mother's  eyes,  the  break  in  the  serenity 
that  had  always  made  them  serene.  Indeed,  to 
her  the  strain  at  times  seemed  greater  than  she 
could  bear.  The  alienation  from  her  son,  the 
changed  future  for  her  daughters,  the  effect  of  the 
disappointment  on  her  husband,  were  the  great 
things.  The  little,  who  can  enumerate  ?  Gloomy 
weather;  overstrained  nerves  reacting  on  digestion ; 
petty  economies,  that  tried  pride  as  well  as  love  of 
ease;  curiosity  of  friends^  annoyance  at  her  hus 
band's  depression,  almost  contempt  for  it ;  contin 
ual  vexation  at  the  change  in  herself,  —  all  these 
things  together  made  her  days  dark  and  painful. 
There  was  nothing  that  she  could  do  to  appease 
her  restlessness.  She  could  not  pour  out  her  love 


60  PH(EBE. 

and  solicitude  in  long  letters  to  Barry,  of  whom 
she  could  not  help  thinking  night  and  day.  She 
could  not  even,  with  her  hands,  fit  up  and  make 
less  miserable  the  poor  little  home  for  him,  for  till 
spring  it  was  in  possession  of  the  then-to-be-done- 
without  gardener.  Her  household  ways  were  so 
well  ordered  and  of  so  long  standing,  she  could  not 
employ  herself  much  on  their  adjustment.  She 
was  too  restless  to  read  with  profit,  too  sad  to  visit, 
too  sore  to  bear  any  companionship.  On  what  was 
nearest  her  heart  she  could  not  speak  to  Lucy,  for 
she  had  kept  her  in  ignorance  of  it;  nor  to  her 
husband,  for  they  were  not  of  one  mind  about  it. 
It  certainly  was  none  the  better  for  her  that  she 
had  to  keep  it  locked  up  in  her  own  breast.  She 
began  by  longing  for  the  spring  "as  they  that  watch 
for  the  morning,"  and  then  to  dread  it,  and  to  fail 
in  her  convictions,  and  to  doubt  all  things,  begin 
ning  with  herself. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

HUMBLE   PIE. 

IT  was  a  perfect  afternoon  in  the  latter  part  of 
May.  The  garden  and  grounds  had  not  yet  be 
gun  to  show  the  absence  of  the  deposed  gardener, 
for  they  had  all  been  put  in  order  by  "  days'  work," 
and  were  yet  trim  from  the  process.  The  house 
had  been  painted  the  year  before,  and  was  darkly 
olive-green  and  deeply  red  where  the  vines  did  not 
hide  it.  There  was  certainly  no  look  of  pinching 
poverty  about  it.  It  was  a  charming  home,  built 
upon  the  site  of  somebody  else's  perhaps  less 
charming  home,  and  so,  rich  with  old  trees  and 
wealthy  in  vines  and  shrubs  and  hedges.  The 
grounds  were  three  or  four  acres  in  extent.  Other 
well-appointed  homes  were  near  it,  but  you  could 
not  quite  look  into  their  windows,  and  you  could 
not  by  any  means  talk  from  one  piazza  to  another. 
At  the  back,  the  ground  sloped  down  into  a  sort 
of  ravine.  On  this  slope  lay  the  garden  and  the 
stables,  and  an  orchard  that  had  been  white  and 
pink  with  blossoms  but  a  few  days  ago.  Across 
this  ravine  you  looked  over  tree-tops  to  blue  hills 
that  rose  beyond.  It  was  an  old  place  and  a 


62  PHCEBE. 

new  house,  a  very  comfortable  combination.  The 
house  had  been  built  some  twenty  years,  but  the 
site  was  the  old  homestead  of  a  well-known  fam 
ily,  which  in  his  early  married  life  Mr.  Crittenden 
had  bought. 

The  old  house  itself  had  been  torn  down,  but 
the  farmhouse,  a  very  small  and  inconvenient  one, 
being  of  rather  more  recent  date,  was  left  stand 
ing,  and  had  served  as  a  house  for  the  gardener. 
It  stood  at  one  side,  quite  up  against  the  hedge 
half-way  between  the  road  and  the  house,  and 
had  been  rather  an  eye-sore  to  Mrs.  Crittenden. 
It  was  not  near  enough  to  the  road  to  be  a  gate 
house,  and  was,  besides,  too  far  from  the  stables, 
and  too  much  under  the  nose  of  visitors  and  pass 
ers-by.  The  gardeners'  wives  were  apt  to  be  care 
less  about  potato-parings  and  tin  pans ;  their  chil 
dren  were  sometimes  untidy  and  noisy.  It  was  a 
standing  offense  to  Barry,  who  had  always  wanted 
it  pulled  down.  But  there  it  had  stood,  and  there 
it  was  to-day,  the  home  to  which  he  was  bringing 
his  wife.  Honor  called  it  "  Humble  Pie,"  in  a 
whisper  to  her  sister,  which  their  mother  heard 
with  a  bitter  smile.  They  did  not  know  half  how 
humble. 

The  transforming  of  Humble  Pie  from  a  very 
shabby  Irish  shanty  into  a  picturesque  cottage  had 
been  the  occupation  of  the  spring.  Very  little 
money  was  permitted,  and  very  much  labor  was 
required.  It  was  a  poor  little  place.  The  small 


HUMBLE  PIE.  63 

front  door  opened  into  a  room  which  was  to  serve 
for  dining-room  and  parlor.  It  had  three  win 
dows,  all  of  different  sizes  and  in  undesirable 
places.  A  small  kitchen  adjoined  it  at  one  side. 
A  narrow  staircase  opposite  the  front  door  led  up 
from  the  parlor  to  the  two  sleeping-rooms  above. 
These  rooms  were  under  the  roof,  and  the  ceilings 
slanted  very  much,  and  the  windows  were  small, 
and  the  closets  could  never  be  anything  but  musty. 
There  was  a  loft  over  the  kitchen,  which  was  to  be 
the  dormitory  of  the  one  servant,  though  it  had  up 
to  this  time  been  the  dormitory  of  the  rats  and  the 
receptacle  of  old  garden  tools  and  obsolete  pots 
and  pans.  One  of  the  two  bedrooms  was  fitted  up 
for  Barry's  dressing-room.  Dressing-room  !  The 
window  was  so  low,  there  was  not  a  spot  where  he 
could  get  light  enough  to  shave  without  going  on 
his  knees,  or  sitting  on  the  floor.  There  was  no 
place  where  the  press  for  his  clothes  could  stand 
save  directly  behind  the  door,  which  consequently 
would  open  only  a  few  inches,  and  which  would 
make  it  necessary  to  squeeze  in  with  great  com 
pression  of  the  person.  One  can  squeeze  in  through 
a  door  once,  but  for  a  "constancy,"  as  they  say 
in  the  country  !  It  was  hard  to  fancy  Barry  keep 
ing  his  temper  through  this  daily  ordeal,  —  Barry, 
the  most^  exacting  member  of  a  dainty,  luxurious, 
smoothly  running  household.  The  architect  of 
this  ancient  building  had  not  been  an  advanced 
ventilationist.  There  was  no  accredited  way  in 


64  PHCEBE. 

which  the  air  could  get  into  the  sleeping-room, 
or,  having  got  in,  get  out.  The  window  was  not 
opposite  the  door,  but  modestly  behind  it ;  and  it 
could  be  raised  only  a  matter  of  five  inches,  and  a 
dense  growth  of  evergreens  shut  it  up  from  with 
out.  The  little  lobby  had  no  perceptible  mode  of 
ventilation  save  from  below,  nnd  as  the  stair-door 
opened  into  the  parlor,  and  was  not  ornamental 
when  open,  it  was  safe  to  say  it  would  generally 
be  shut.  "  They  will  both  have  typhus  fever  and 
die,"  said  the  mother.  The  father  refused  even  to 
go  into  the  house  and  look  at  it. 

"  He  has  made  his  bed,  and  he  will  have  to  lie 
in  it,"  he  said.  "  If  he  wants  a  better  house,  let 
him  bestir  himself  and  go  to  work  and  get  it." 

But  pretty  paper  and  muslin  curtains  and  a 
little  fresh  paint  made  it  quite  a  delight  to  the 
young  sisters,  who  did  not  care  much  about  venti 
lation  as  a  principle.  The  vines  outside,  and  a 
very  inexpensive  new  porch,  and  some  hoods  over 
the  "  unthinking "  windows,  and  a  coat  of  paint 
certainly  rendered  it  not  unattractive.  Lucy  and 
Honor,  with  step-ladders  and  tacks  and  hammers 
and  spoils  from  their  own  rooms  had  flitted  in  and 
out,  as  happy  as  nest-building  birds.  The  mother, 
with  anxious  eyes,  had  superintended  the  "  point 
ing  up"  of  chimneys,  the  putting  in  of  kitchen 
shelves,  the  clearing  out  of  drains.  The  garrets 
at  home  had  been  ransacked,  the  upper  shelves  of 
china  closets  overhauled :  scarcely  anything  new 


HUMBLE  PIE.  65 

was  bought,' and  yet  Humble  Pie  was  comfort 
ably  furnished  and  a  not  unpleasant-looking  little 
place. 

What  could  be  unpleasant  looking,  in  this 
warm,  sweet,  late  May  weather  ?  Fresh  shoots 
from  the  vines  hung  about  the  porch  and  windows  ; 
the  thick  screen  of  evergreens  had  renewed  itself, 
and  was  bright  to  match  the  season.  Not  a  weed 
had  presumed  to  obtrude  itself  on  the  freshly 
made  path,  and  the  new  sod  that  had  been  laid 
to  obliterate  the  gardener's  children's  foot-prints 
had  become  naturalized,  and  was  green  and  bright. 

It  was  afternoon  when  they  arrived,  Barry  and 
his  wife  alone  (for  the  little  baby,  for  whose  good 
name  so  much  had  -been'  sacrificed,  had  died  be 
fore  it  saw  the  light,  and  had  had  no  need  of  a 
name,  good  or  bad,  in  this  or  perhaps  any  other 
world).  His  mother  had  sent  away  the  two  young 
girls,  when  she  heard  the  whistle  of  the  train 
sound.  The  journey  had  been  long,  and  they 
would  be  tired.  The  meeting  would  be  agitating. 
It  was  well  the  travelers  should  rest,  and  see  their 
home  by  themselves,  and  come  over  at  seven 
o'clock  to  dinner.  The  mother  alone  would  stay 
to  meet  them  and  give  them  a  word  of  welcome, 
and  then  leave  them  to  the  lunch  already  prepared, 
and  to  the  inspection  of  the  house,  that  could  not 
fail  to  have  as  much  interest  to  them  as  to  those 
who  had  with  so  much  affection  made  it  ready  for 
them.  The  new  servant  in  the  kitchen  was  ner- 

5 


66  PHCEBE. 

vously  moving  about  and  glancing  out  of  the  win 
dow. 

Yes,  in  five  minutes  they  would  be  here ;  in 
five  minutes  would  come  the  minute  of  which 
the  mother  had  been  thinking  for,  let  us  say,  a 
hundred  thousand  minutes,  since  that  November 
new  moon  shone  through  the  library  window  over 
the  left  shoulder  of  pretty,  pettish  little  Honor. 
She  should  in  five  minutes  see  again  her  alienated 
boy,  —  see  the  face  she  had  never  left  off  seeing  day 
or  night  since  then,  and  see  the  dreaded,  despised, 
and  all  unknown  woman  who  had  taken  him  away 
from  her.  Her  breath  came  short  and  quick  :  it 
makes  great  draughts  upon  one's  strength  to  re 
hearse  so  often  the  moment  which  is  so  slow  in 
coming.  How  would  it  be  ?  Would  she  be  strong 
enough  to  conceal  any  repulsion  that  she  might 
feel  towards  her?  Would  she  be  self-controlled 
enough  to  show  just  the  right  tenderness  to  him, 
not  overwhelming  him  with  that  for  which  per 
haps  he  had  ceased  to  care,  and  not  chilling  him 
by  a  change  from  the  welcome  to  which  he  had 
been  accustomed  ?  One  needs  to  be  saint,  states 
man,  one  needs  to  be  filled  with  wisdom,  human 
and  divine,  to  be  a  parent. 

She  looked  again  about  the  little  room.  It  was 
all  in  order  :  flowers  in  the  pretty  vases,  dainty 
china  for  their  first  meal  on  the  small  square 
table,  pictures  and  books  and  ornaments  disguis 
ing  the  plainness  and  poverty  of  the  place.  The 


HUMBLE  PIE.  67 

sunshine   came   in   through  the   fluttering  green 
shadows  of  the  vines  outside;  the  soft  muslin  cur 
tains    moved    faintly    with   the    summer   breeze ; 
there  was  verbena  among  the  roses  and  mignon 
ette    on   the    table,  and   the  odor  was    delicious. 
Honor   had   brought  down  one   of    her  canaries, 
among  her  other  welcoming  gifts,  and  it  hung  in 
the  porch  and  sang  its  best  to  the  admiring  robins 
and  bluebirds  in  the  trees    overhead.      But   ah, 
what  a  home  to  which  to  welcome  her  boy  !     It 
was  a  cruel  travesty  of  all  her  ambitions  for  him. 
The  first-born  of  the  house,  the  admired  young 
Adonis,  the  planned-for,  speculated-about,  carefully 
educated,  exceptionally  gifted  son,  coming  home 
with    his   bride   to    the    gardener's   tumble-down 
shanty,  on  the  outskirts  of  his  father's  not  too  am 
ple  grounds  !    It  all  seemed  a  miserable  burlesque. 
Had  they  been  thinking  themselves  of  too  much 
consequence  for  the  past  twenty  years,  and  was 
this  the  waking  up  ?     Was  this  the  fit  beginning 
for  the  son  they  had  reared,  or  was  it  fit  only  for 
him  because  he  had  failed  to  profit  by  their  rear 
ing  ?     There  are  times  in  our  lives  when  confusion 
of  the  elements  makes  it  impossible  to  take  our 
reckoning,  and  this  was  one  of  those  times.    The 
only  thing  she  could  hold  by  was  the  certainty 
that  when    she   had   made  the  decision  she  had 
done  what  she  thought  right ,  and  by  that  inward 
compass  she  must  steer  and  wait  the  chances,  or 
the  providences,  or  whatever  they  were. 


68  PIICEBE. 

She  felt  too  overstrained  to  meet  the  new 
comers  now ;  she  wished  she  might  put  it  off. 
She  walked  about  the  room,  her  cheeks  flushed, 
her  lips  firm-set.  She  was  a  small  woman ;  in  youth 
she  had  been  very  slight,  but  the  after-forty  full 
ness  was  now  rounding  her  figure,  and  making 
her  less  girlish,  but  not  ungraceful.  Her  hair  was 
light  and  waving ;  her  «yes  were  gray  and  fine 
and  expressive  and  rather  far  apart ;  her  nose 
retroussg ;  her  mouth  not  small,  firm  and  yet 
sweet.  Her  motions  were  quick,  but  her  man 
ner  composed.  She  gave  you  the  idea  of  being 
younger  than  she  was.  Her  voice  was  very  sweet, 
and  she  had  a  manner  of  attention  and  sympathy 
which  made  her  much  beloved.  Withal  she  seemed 
to  be  judging,  weighing,  even  in  little  things,  and 
yet  she  was  not  cold  ;  she  was  even  impulsive, 
when  she  approved  her  impulses.  People  thought 
she  probably  had  n't  any  impulses  which  were  not 
to  be  approved.  She  was  very  much  looked  up  to, 
and  for  years  had  known  that  her  opinion  was  of 
weight  with  the  persons  among  whom  she  moved. 
Now  all  this  seemed  part  of  the  huge  mistake  in 
which  her  life  was  engulfed. 

There  they  were  ;  she  heard  wheels  at  the  gate, 
—  the  wheels  of  one  of  the  shabby  hacks.  For 
their  carriage  was  put  down,  and  Honor's  pony 
sold,  and  the  shabby  hacks  at  the  depot  were  all 
their  reliance  now.  How  would  Barry  relish  bring 
ing  his  bride  home  in  one  of  them,  —  home  to  the 
gardener's  humble  shanty  ? 


HUMBLE  PIE.  69 

.As  the  hack  drew  up  before  the  little  door  she 
went  back  a  moment  more  to  collect  herself.  She 
caught  sight  of  Barry  as  he  stepped  out  of  the  ve 
hicle  ;  she  saw  him  glance  quickly  and  curiously 
up  at  the  front  of  the  little  house,  with  a  contrac 
tion  of  the  brow.  How  tall  he  looked,  how  broad- 
sliouldered  and  handsome.  It  was  more  incongru 
ous  than  ever  to  think  of  him  under  this  low 
shelter.  Then  she  came  forward  and  stepped 
upon  the  porch  to  meet  him  :  his  companion  was 
standing  behind  him.  Barry  approached  her,  and 
stooped  down  and  kissed  her.  She  did  not  even 
meet  his  eye,  in  her  agitation.  She  saw  that  his 
cheek  was  a  little  flushed,  and  that  his  hand  trem 
bled  slightly,  that  was  all  that  she  could  be  defi 
nite  about,  when,  in  her  own  room,  she  thought 
the  meeting  over.  She  had  carried  away  no  im 
pression  of  the  young  wife,  save  that  of  a  tall, 
well-formed  woman,  wearing  a  dark  traveling 
dress  and  having  a  veil  tied  over  her  face.  Noth 
ing  had  been  said,  save  the  acceptance  of  her  ex 
planations  and  arrangements.  She  had  left  them 
almost  the  moment  after  their  arrival,  and  now 
there  was  nothing  to  do  but  await  the  hour  of 
dinner,  and  the  beginning  of  the  new  life  that 
must  be  so  full  of  consequences  to  them  all. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  NEW  DAUGHTER. 

THE  evening  was  warm,  even  though  it  was 
still  May,  and  at  seven  o'clock  it  was  much  more 
attractive  out  of  doors  than  in.  The  sky  was  full 
of  lovely  tints,  scarcely  yet  to  be  called  sunset 
ones,  and  the  air  sweet  with  the  thousand  odors 
of  late  springtime.  There  was  a  honeysuckle  on 
the  piazza  that  had  put  out  its  first  faint  blossom ; 
and  it  was  a  faith  of  Lucy's  that  the  green  leaves 
of  all  the  vines  gave  out  a  perfume  during  the 
first  few  weeks  of  their  innocent  lives.  The  pi 
azza  was  hung  with  twenty  years'  growth  of  vines : 
Marrowfat  was  a  warm  place,  and  all  summer  the 
family  lived  as  much  outside  as  inside  the  house. 
There  were  one  or  two  tables  and  plenty  of  bum- 
boo  chairs  and  lounges  on  the  wide  piazza,  and 
brackets  and  shelves,  and  generally  an  afghan  or 
two  and  some  footstools,  and  a  leather  screen. 
When  a  shower  came,  there  was  a  rush  for  the 
piazza  to  secure  the  properties ;  but  the  thick 
vines  made  it  a  tolerably  safe  place  even  in  a 
shower.  This  evening  all  the  windows  were  wide 
open,  back  and  front ;  the  sunset  was  at  the  rear, 


THE  NEW  DAUGHTER.  71 

and  shone  through,  and  made  house  and  piazza 
light  and  warm-colored.  Lucy  sat  with  a  book 
on  her  lap,  but  it  need  not  be  said  she  did  not 
read.  Honor  wandered  about  restlessly  ;  now  go 
ing  into  the  parlor  to  glance  at  her  pretty  little 
person  in  the  mirror,  now  coming  out  on  the 
piazza  and  peering  through  the  vines,  to  see  if 
they  were  coming. 

"  If  papa  had  only  got  back  in  the  early  train," 
she  said  for  not  the  first  time.  "It  would  have 
been  so  much  nicer  for  him  to  have  been  here  to 
receive  them.  But  he  acts  exactly  as  if  he  did  n't 
care  a  straw  about  their  coming.  I  almost  think 
he  had  forgotten  it." 

Certainly  it  would  have  been  nicer.  It  was  one 
of  the  small  contrarieties  that  darkened  his  wife's 
life  nowadays  that  he  had  not  come  in  his  usual 
train.  She  only  hoped  it  was  not  with  a  purpose. 
She  was  a  woman  who  made  her  little  plans  and 
rehearsed  her  little  scenes  with  a  strength  of  im 
agination  that  made  their  disarrangement  a  very 
vital  matter.  She  had  hoped  they  would  all  be 
together  at  the  steps  to  welcome  Barry  when  he 
first  came  up  them  with  his  new  wife.  She  had 
thought  the  father's  coldness  would  be  covered  by 
the  general  movement  and  distraction.  Now  the 
meeting  was  to  be  done  all  by  itself,  and  no  one 
would  fail  to  see  just  how  unwelcome  both  son  and 
daughter  were  to  him. 

"  Here  they  come,"  whispered  Honor,  flitting 


72  PHCEBE. 

out  from  behind  the  vines.  Lucy  closed  her  book 
with  a  throb  of  the  heart,  and  rose.  The  mother, 
quite  pale,  but  with  a  sweet  welcoming  smile  came 
forward  to  meet  them.  They  were  crossing  the 
lawn,  Barry  a  little  in  advance,  as  if  he  were 
not  thinking  of  his  companion,  but  were  nerving 
himself  for  something,  which  he  proposed  to  get 
through  with  as  quickly  as  might  be.  He  was 
well,  even  elegantly  dressed  ;  with  maternal  omnis 
cience  the  mother  knew  that  his  clothes  must  be  of 
last  year,  for  he  had  had  no  money  to  get  new  ones 
since.  There  was  something  about  him  so  above 
this  sort  of  mean  fact.  He  was  comrnandingly  well 
made ;  he  carried  himself  with  an  innocent  pomp, 
an  absence  of  disdain  combined  with  a  conviction 
of  supremacy.  He  was  so  strikingly  handsome 
that  people  turned  and  looked  at  him,  both  men 
and  women.  It  had  always  been,  "your  hand 
some  son,"  "  that  splendid  boy  of  yours,"  ever 
since  he  wore  petticoats.  Who  could  look  at  him 
without  pride,  that  had  any  part  in  him  ?  His 
skin  was  not  dark,  rather  clear,  and  with  a  redness 
that  came  and  went,  but  was  not  in  the  least  ef 
feminate,  any  more  than  the  smile  which  was  con 
tinually  glimmering  across  his  face,  and  which  sel 
dom  went  entirely  out.  (It  was  out  now,  though, 
out  utterly.)  His  hair,  which  had  a  Boupgon  of 
a  wave,  was  of  a  bright,  lively  chestnut,  as  was 
his  mustache.  It  was  abundant,  rich,  thickly 
growing  hair,  which  asserted  itself,  though  kept 


THE  NEW  DAUGHTER.  73 

shortly  cropped.  Indeed,  there,  was  no  suggestion 
of  want  of  abundance  about  him  :  the  pity  was  all 
the  greater  that  it  should  exist  in  his  pocket.  His 
eyes  were  gray,  large,  and  expressive,  and  with  a 
sort  of  flame  about  their  glance  that  one  does  not 
look  for  in  gray  eyes.  They  had  very  dark  and 
long  lashes,  a  part  of  the  amplitude  of  his  tonso- 
rial  endowment.  The  ready-coming  color  and  the 
long  lashes  would  have  risked  the  manly  appear 
ance  of  another,  perhaps,  but  Barry  was  too  tall 
and  too  self-asserting  and  his  manliness  too  pro 
nounced  to  be  endangered  by  such  trifles. 

At  this  moment  he  was  pale  rather  than 
flushed,  however,  and  the  seriousness,  almost  con 
straint,  of  his  face  struck  his  young  sisters  as  un 
natural.  The  gravity  of  the  occasion  began  to 
oppress  Honor  uncomfortably ;  she  scarcely  dared 
to  look  at  her  new  sister.  Did  people  always  feel 
like  this  when  they  had  been  getting  married? 
Barry  stooped  and  kissed  his  mother,  who  came 
half-way  down  the  steps  to  meet  him. 

"And  Phoebe?  "  she  said,  with  a  tender  smile, 
going  down  another  step  and  putting  her  hands 
out  to  the  young  woman,  who  was  still  standing 
on  the  ground  at  the  foot  of  them.  This  position 
brought  her  a  little  above  the  level  of  the  head  of 
the  new-comer,  who  was  as  unusually  tall  as  she 
was  unusually  short.  She  kissed  her  almost  on  an 
equality,  and  then,  keeping  her  hand,  led  her  up 
the  steps  towards  the  two  girls  who,  having  hur- 


74  PH(EBE. 

riedly  greeted  their  brother,  stood  shyly  awaiting 
her.  Phcebe  tripped  slightly  on  the  middle  step. 

"  Oh  why  did  you  trip  !  "  cried  Honor,  involun 
tarily.  "  It 's  bad  luck." 

"  I  'm  sure  I  hope  not,"  murmured  Phoebe,  al 
most  inaudibly. 

"  These  are  your  new  sisters,"  said  Mrs.  Crit- 
tenden.  "  And  this  one,  I  need  n't  say,  is  the  su 
perstitious  one.  You  must  try  and  cure  her." 

Phoebe  did  not  look  as  if  she  had  a  mission  to 
cure  any  one  of  anything  :  she  looked  as  if  she  had 
all  she  could  do  to  get  through  the  ordeal  and 
cure  herself  of  the  desire  to  run  away,  though  she 
did  not  impress  her  young  sisters  with  anything 
but  an  appearance  of  stiffness  and  reserve.  They 
kissed  her  and  led  her  to  a  seat  on  the  piazza,  and 
sat  down  beside  her,  and  covertly  looked  at  her 
while  they  talked  to  her. 

Phoebe  was  a  person  you  could  not  well  help 
looking  at  any  more  than  at  Barry,  for,  like  him, 
she  was  notably  handsome,  though  without  the 
finish  of  good  dressing  and  easy  bearing.  Not  that 
her  bearing  would  not  have  been  easy  on  her  na 
tive  hills,  or  among  her  own  people  ;  but  it  takes 
a  pretty  stout  easiness  of  bearing  to  stand  up 
against  the  first  meeting  with  your  husband's  rela 
tions,  particularly  when  they  look  at  you  covertly 
when  they  talk  to  yon,  and  have  reason  to. 

She  was,  as  has  been  said,  very  tall,  and  rather 
fuller  and  finer  than  it  is  the  fashion  to  be  nowa- 


THE  NEW  DAUGHTER.  75 

days.  But  she  was  quite  capable  of  making  a  fash 
ion  for  herself.  She  was  a  beauty.  Her  shoulders 
were  well  shaped,  her  head  well  set  upon  them. 
Though  she  wore  an  abominable  shiny  black  silk 
dress,  which  fitted  with  home-made  smoothness 
and  total  want  of  style,  you  could  see  there  was 
no  fault  to  be  found  with  her  figure.  You  had 
faith  in  the  perfection  of  the  arms  you  did  not 
see,  thanks  to  the  odious,  ill-made  sleeves,  and  to 
the  purity  and  roundness  of  the  throat  that  had 
a  stiff  linen  collar  close  about  it,  fastened  with  a 
big  brooch,  which  had  a  good  many  quirls  and 
turns  of  chased,  cheap-looking  gold.  She  was 
large,  if  that  is  any  objection,  but  large  cor 
rectly,  in  proportions  that  satisfied  you.  You 
knew  that  she  would  move  well,  with  a  certain 
full  grace,  when  she  was  at  ease,  and  not  being 
looked  at  by  her  husband's  relations.  Her  skin 
was  clear,  and  her  cheeks  and  lips  had  a  warm 
color.  Her  rich  brown  hair  grew  low  on  her  fore 
head  and  waved  without  assistance.  It  was  as 
badly  arranged  as  might  be,  for  the  ingSnue  style 
had  not  reached  Maiden,  and  the  maidens  and 
matrons  of  that  neighborhood  still  wore  fortresses 
of  hair  on  the  tops  of  their  heads.  It  was  easy  to 
see,  however,  that  Phoebe  had, so  'much  that  she 
could,  when  enlightened,  dress  it  in  any  style  de 
manded.  Her  nose  was  straight,  and  her  mouth, 
while  not  fuller  than  everything  else  about  her, 
was  certainly  not  indicative  of  undue  sternness  of 


76  PHCEBE. 

purpose  or  a  lack  of  physical  life.  But  it  was 
sweet  and  well  formed  ;  the  indentation  of  the 
upper  lip  was  deep,  and  her  slow,  infrequent  smile 
brought  out  a  look  of  innocence.  Her  eyes  were 
large,  and  brown,  and  soft.  They  were  appealing 
and  affectionate,  like  the  eyes  of  a  setter  dog. 
She  was  evidently  rather  a  silent  person,  whether 
from  shyness,  or  from  a  natural  disinclination  or 
inability  to  communicate  with  her  fellow  beings,  it 
was  not  easy  at  once  to  see.  While  Barry  was 
standing  by  his  mother  near  the  steps,  and  the 
others  were  sitting  down  a  short  way  from  them, 
a  hack  drove  in  at  the  gate. 

"It is  your  father,"  said  Mrs.  Crittenden,  a  little 
nervously,  looking  at  her  watch.  Barry,  perhaps 
from  nervousness  as  well,  moved  away  from  the 
steps  and  joined  his  sisters. 

44  Papa  is  late,"  remarked  Lucy. 

4'  Why  does  he  come  in  that  old  thing  ?  "  asked 
Barry. 

"  Oh,  don't  you  know,"  cried  Honor,  "  that 
we  've  given  up  the  carriage  ?  " 

"What  for?  In  consequence  of  your  getting 
to  be  a  young  lady  ?  " 

44  Why,  no ;  more  in  consequence  of  your  get 
ting  to  be  a  married  man !  Don't  you  know 
economy  is  the  order  of  the  day  ?  " 

44  A  very  disagreeable  order,"  muttered  her 
brother,  the  color  coming  into  his  face.  It  had 
not  receded,  nor  his  brow  smoothed,  before  the 


THE  NEW  DAUGHTER.  77 

hack  stopped  at  the  steps  and  was  battered  open 
by  Mr.  Crittenden  from  within,  who  emerged, 
tired  and  rather  pale.  He  did  not  look  at  once 
up  to  the  piazza,  but  turned  and  gave  the  man 
some  directions,  and  then  opened  the  dilapidated 
carriage  door  again,  and  searched  about  for  some 
thing  he  had  left.  If  Mrs.  Crittenden  had  not 
engaged  with  herself  at  an  early  age  not  to  pull 
the  wires  of  her  male  puppets,  she  would  have 
said,  "  Barry,  go  down  and  meet  your  father  and 
take  his  bag." 

She  trembled  with  the  eagerness  that  she  felt 
to  say  it ;  but  she  was  a  wise  woman,  and  forbore. 
Barry  did  not  go  ;  very  likely  would  not  have  gone 
if  he  had  been  asked.  He  stood  with  a  contracted 
brow,  looking  across  the. lawn  till  his  father  came 
up  the  steps. 

"  How  do  you  do?"  asked  the  latter,  after  speak 
ing  to  his  wife,  reaching  out  his  hand  to  him  in 
a  matter-of-fact  way. 

"Phcebe,"  Barry  said,  stepping  back,  after  he 
had  dropped  the  perfunctory  hand,  "  this  is  my 
father." 

"  Ah,"  said  Mr.  Crittenden,  looking  towards 
the  group,  from  which  Phoebe  made  an  uncertain 
slow  step  forward.  "  This  is  your  wife  ?  How 
do  you  do  ?  " 

And  he  put  out  his  hand.  It  seems  probable 
that  during  a  critical  instant  he  debated  with  him 
self  whether  to  kiss  her  or  not.  If  that  were  so, 


78  PHCEBE. 

he  decided  in  the  negative,  and  let  go  the  hand 
he  held  without  any  further  advance  or  welcome. 
The  girl  became  slowly  very  white,  and  drew 
back  to  her  place  behind  the  two  young  daughters, 
who  in  their  turn  were  greeted  without  effusion  by 
their  father,  and  kissed  him  lightly.  Lucy  ran 
forward  and  took  his  bag,  and,  as  usual,  went  up 
with  him  to  the  door  of  his  dressing-room. 

Dinner  was  a  little  stiff ;  it  could  not  have  been 
otherwise.  But  Honor's  vivacity  was  unfailing. 
She  liked  events,  and  this  was  an  event  of  mag 
nitude.  She  was  too  young  to  read  between  the 
lines  of  her  elders'  forced  talk,  and  not  imagina 
tive  in  the  way  that  Lucy  was,  who  was  making 
a  volume  of  romance  out  of  every  change  of  color 
in  the  young  stranger's  face.  She  simply  found  it 
delightful  to  have  had  a  marriage  in  the  family, 
and  it  was  a  treat  to  see  a  bride,  even  if  one  of 
six  months'  standing,  and  such  a  very  odd  one.  It 
was  a  break  in  the  monotony  of  the  home  life. 
For  the  winter  had  been  dull,  and  the  spring  had 
been  worse,  and  summer  was  not  yet  on  its  feet. 
At  sixteen  one  likes  things  to  happen.  Honor 
was  watching  always  for  something  to  happen. 
This  taste  of  hers  was  quite  a  boon  to  the  family 
on  that  evening,  as  one  person  in  very  sincere 
good  spirits  must  be  to  a  tableful  of  doubtful  or 
depressed  ones.  Before  the  meal  was  over,  life 
looked  a  little  more  possible  to  one  or  two  of  the 
party,  and  a  little  more  promising  to  one  or  two 


THE  NEW  DAUGHTER.  79 

others.  Honor's  lively  chatter  brought  again  be 
fore  Barry's  eyes  the  old  life,  and  recalled  his  in 
terest  in  trifles  long  forgotten.  A  good  dinner 
warmed  his  blood ;  it  was  something  to  bask  again 
in  the  sunshine  of  civilization.  Lucy  always  con 
sented  to  be  happy  if  others  would  be  so.  The 
mother  felt  the  long  strain  on  her  heart  relax  a 
little.  The  father,  unconsciously  to  himself,  was 
relieved  that  the  first  step  was  taken,  and  promised 
himself  that  the  succeeding  ones  should  not  affect 
him  equally.  The  tie  of  blood  was  imperceptibly 
asserting  its  magic  force.  The  young  alien  felt 
them  drawing  together,  and  knew  herself  an  alien. 
When  they  were  leaving  the  dinner  table,  — 

"After  all,"  said  Honor,  "it's  very  generous  in 
me  to  be  glad  to  have  Phoebe  here,  for  she  's  not 
becoming  to  me.  Don't  you  see  ?  She  makes  me 
look  little,  and  thin,  and  poor.  Lucy  does  better 
beside  her,  —  she  's  taller  than  I  am,  and  is  n't  put 
out  completely :  she  makes  rather  a  nice  contrast, 
with  her  light  hair.  But  I,  —  I  'm  blown  out ; 
there  is  n't  a  flicker  left.  Phoebe  looks  like  a 
great  Jacqueminot  rose,  and  I  like  a  piece  of  white 
clover,  a  little  browned  at  the  edges." 

"  I  should  n't  have  called  you  a  field  flower,  ex 
actly,"  remarked  her  brother,  touching  the  scarf 
of  her  delicately  embroidered  French  cashmere. 
"  This  looks  more  like  Solomon  in  all  his  glory." 

"Don't  you  think  it's  nice?"  asked  Honor, 
drawing  back  a  step  and  looking  over  her  shoulder 


80  PHCEBE. 

with  a  complacent  vanity.  "  It 's  a  French  dress 
mamma  ordered  for  me  last  fall ;  and  it  did  n't 
get  here  till  Christmas.  It  was  to  have  been  my 
nice  dress  all  winter,  but  as  we  did  n't  go  to  town 
it  will  do  for  my  nice  dress  all  the  spring  and 
fall.  Don't  you  see  ?  I  'm  getting  very  thrifty. 
I  have  n't  worn  it  once.  I  would  n't  waste  it  on 
Marrowfat  in  the  winter.  But  this  was  such  a 
great  occasion." 

"  We  feel  it,"  said  Barry,  briefly.  He  could 
have  wished  she  would  n't  talk  about  the  family 
economies  so  much.  They  went  back  to  the 
piazza  for  a  while,  as  the  evening  was  so  warm. 
The  sky  was  still  bright  with  the  sunset  tints. 
Lucy  went  down  the  steps  and  picked  some  flow 
ers,  which  she  gave  to  Phoebe,  who  held  them  as  if 
she  did  n't  know  what  to  do  with  them. 

"  She  does  n't  like  flowers,  I  'm  afraid,"  thought 
Lucy,  with  a  sinking  of  the  heart.  What  did 
she  like  ?  Evidently  not  clear  soup  and  lobster 
pate's  and  salads  and  meringues,  for  she  had  left 
them  successively  almost  untasted  on  her  plate, 
and  would  n't  have  taken  them  at  all  except  for 
a  look  from  Barry.  She  did  not  appear  to  like 
pretty  rooms  and  wide  piazzas,  for  she  did  not  look 
at  them  with  any  interest.  And  it  was  to  be 
doubted  whether  she  liked  her  new  relations  very 
much,  for  she  was  very  irresponsive  to  all  their 
graceful  advances. 

And   how  did   they   like    her  ?     The   mother 


THE  NEW  DAUGHTER.  81 

looked  at  her  affectionate,  dumb-pleading  eyes, 
and  forgave  her,  and  almost  loved  her.  The  fa 
ther  took  in  at  a  glance  her  unusual  beauty,  and 
his  heart  hardened  towards  her,  and  softened  to 
wards  the  son  who  had  been  led  away  by  it. 
Certainly  there  was  excuse  for  Barry.  We  don't 
love  the  splendid  horse  that  has  thrown  and  killed 
some  one  dear  to  us,  nor  the  fine  dog  who  man 
gled  our  pet,  nor  the  keen  blade  that  made  such 
a  quick  end  of  our  friend.  Their  individual  per 
fections  do  not  render  the  sight  of  them  any  less 
painful  to  us ;  rather,  more. 

Lucy  watched  covertly  the  constrained,  unde 
monstrative  manners  of  the  new-comer,  her  pas 
sive  grasp  of  the  nosegay  that  she  gave  her,  her 
unsuggestive  answers,  the  little  interchange  of 
glance  and  word  between  her  and  Barry;  and 
Lucy  was  perplexed  and  somewhat  downcast,  — 
poor  Lucy,  with  her  dreams  and  her  small  experi 
ence. 

And  Honor  looked  at  the  ill-made  black  silk 
and  the  flamboyant  breast-pin,  and  wondered,  — 
wondered  till  she  almost  forgot  to  talk. 

Mr.  Crittenden  had  wandered  away  to  look  at 
the  garden,  after  dinner ;  his  wife  had  hoped  Barry 
would  go  with  him,  but  he  showed  no  such  inten 
tion.  So  they  all  sat  on  the  piazza  watching  the 
fading  sky,  and  drank  their  coffee  when  it  was 
brought  out  to  them.  There  were  many  things  to 
tell  Barry.  He  would  not  ask  questions,  but  it 
6 


82  PIKEBE. 

was  plain  he  was  interested  in  this  and  that,  and 
Honor  had  a  sprightly  way  of  imparting  gossip 
that  her  brother  had  always  rather  approved. 

"  And  Tartar  's  coming  to-morrow.  Did  you 
know  that  ?  " 

"  My  cousin  Tartar  !  You  don't  tell  me  so  !  " 
cried  Barry,  getting  up  and  walking  across  the 
piazza  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  evidently 
much  interested.  "  It 's  —  a  great  many  months 
since  I  've  heard  a  word  of  Tartar.  How  is  she 
getting  on  ?  Is  she  engaged  or  anything  ?  " 

"  Ah,  no,  Barry,"  said  his  mother,  with  a  soft 
sigh.  "  Tartar  is  n't  engaged.  You  know  you 
did  n't  expect  to  hear  that." 

"  Upon  my  word,  I  don't  know  why  not.  I  did 
n't  '  expect '  anything  about  it,  if  I  must  tell  the 
truth." 

"  Tartar  is  a  dear  girl,"  she  said,  in  the  same 
tone.  "  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  her  again." 

"  I  'm  sure  you  won't  be  gladder  than  I." 

Barry  stood  leaning  against  a  pillar  of  the 
piazza  before  them  in  an  easy,  graceful  attitude, 
his  face  quite  lighted  up  with  interest  in  these 
things,  all  new  to  Phoebe.  Though  she  had  never 
heard  Tartar's  name  before,  she  knew  the  whole 
story  in  a  moment,  the  mother's  soft  sigh,  his  sud 
den  awakening.  She  had  vaguely  known  that 
there  was  some  one  who  had  been  intended  for 
him.  It  was  this  cousin,  then,  that  they  had  meant 
him  to  marry,  —  this  cousin  who  was  coming  to 
morrow. 


THE  NEW  DAUGHTER.  83 

"  You  know  she  's  been  ill.  We  have  n't  seen 
her  since  before  the  holidays,"  said  Honor.  "  She 
went  South  early  in  January.  Everybody  was 
frightened  about  her.  She  had  pneumonia,  and 
it  left  her  with  such  an  ugly  cough." 

"I  had  n't  heard  of  it,"  said  Barry,  dryly.  It 
seemed  his  interest  did  not  abate,  though  he  did 
not  ask  Honor  to  go  on. 

"  We  went  to  town  to  see  her  just  before  she 
sailed.  She  was  so  thin,  her  hand  seemed  like 
nothing,  only  it  was  so  hot.  And  she  talked, 
talked,  every  minute  we  were  there.  Lucy  and  I 
simply  did  n't  say  a  word." 

"  Tartar  never  was  what  you  'd  call  reticent," 
Barry  said,  with  a  little  laugh,  bending  over  his 
cigar,  in  which  he  was  cutting  with  a  very  sharp 
knife  a  very  small  incision. 

"  Why  do  you  laugh,  Barry  ?  "  asked  Lucy,  with 
a  hurt  expression. 

"  Would  you  have  me  cry  ?  I  take  it  she  's 
better,  since  she's  come  back  from  the  South  and 
is  expected  here  to-morrow." 

"  She  is  better,  but  she  was  very  ill.  You  ought 
to  be  ashamed  for  making  light  of  it,  when  you 
and  she  were  such  friends,"  said  Honor. 

"  I  'm  showing  my  feeling  by  being  glad  that 
she  's  well,  not  by  being  sorry  that  she  was  n't." 

"Ah,  much  feeling  you  show!"  cried  Honor. 
He  certainly  did  not  look  much  moved.  Phoebe 
knew  it  was  passing  through  his  mind  that  in  De- 


84  PHOEBE. 

cember  the  news  of  his  marriage  had  been  made 
public.  She  tried  to  think  whether  it  would  please 
her  to  hear  that  any  man  had  been  made  ill  by  the 
news  that  she  was  married  (always  provided  of 
course  that  he  had  got  well  again  before  she  heard 
he  had  been  ill).  It  hardly  seemed  to  her  it  would 
have  given  her  much  pleasure  ;  but  she  could  not 
tell,  —  it  might.  And  then  one  must  make  allow 
ance  for  a  man :  men  are  so  different  from  women 
about  such  things. 

"  Her  Aunt  David  went  with  her,  as  usual, 
though  she  had  to  be  carried  on  the  steamer,  stiff 
with  rheumatism.  But  she  was  so  frightened 
about  Tartar's  cough  she  would  n't  let  her  go 
without  her,  and  now  she  won't  let  her  out  of  her 
sight.  She  's  coming  up  with  her  to-morrow.  I  'm 
afraid  Tartar  '11  never  have  her  liberty  again." 

"  There  might  be  worse  things  than  having 
Aunt  David  as  a  permanent  attachment.  And 
have  they  got  an  apartment  ?  Where  are  they 
living?" 

"  At  a  hotel.  They  feel  that  Tartar  won't  be 
able  to  spend  her  winters  at  the  North  any  more, 
and  so  they  have  given  up  their  apartment,  and 
are  floating  population." 

"  Talk  about  liberty !  There  's  liberty  for  a 
young  woman  :  the  world  before  her,  and  nobody 
in  it  belonging  to  her  but  one  old  woman,  who 
does  just  as  she  tells  her  to  ;  and  more  money  than 
she  knows  what  to  do  with.  If  she  can't  be  happy, 
who  can  ?  " 


THE  NEW  DAUGHTER.  85 

"  You  forget,"  said  Lucy,  "  that  liberty  is  n't 
all  women  want." 

"  They  generally  think  it 's  that  they  want  as 
soon  as  they  have  got  husbands." 

"And  Peyton  Edwards  is  coming  up,  too,  to 
morrow.  I  thought  you  'd  be  glad  to  see  him," 
added  Mrs.  Crittenden.  "  It 's  so  long  since  he  's 
been  here,  I  feared  he  had  forgotten  us ;  but  last 
week  I  got  a  note  from  him,  from  which  I  inferred 
he  would  be  glad  to  come.  So  I  wrote  him  that 
you  would  be  home,  and  he  must  come  to-mor 
row." 

"  He  waited  till  the  mud  was  dried  up,"  cried 
Honor,  with  fine  scorn.  "  Barry,  nobody  's  been 
here  all  winter,  —  literally  nobody.  I  shall  know 
now  who  are  to  be  counted  on." 

"  That 's  unreasonable,  Honor,"  said  Lucy,  ear 
nestly.  "  There  was  nothing  going  on  ;  we  did 
n't  ask  anybody.  You  could  n't  expect  to  have 
young  men  coming  here  in  winter,  when  Barry 
was  n't  home,  without  being  asked." 

"  You'll  see  ;  they  won't  wait  to  be  asked  now 
it 's  pleasant  weather  ;  they  '11  remind  us  of  their 
existence,  as  Peyton  did." 

"  Poor  old  Peyton,"  excMmed  Barry,  with  a 
laugh  ;  "  he  's  the  last  person  you  'd  accuse  of  be 
ing  a  fair-weather  friend." 

"  Or  of  angling  for  an  invitation,"  said  his 
mother,  with  a  smile. 

u  Poor  old  Peyton,  indeed !      He 's  about   two 


86  PIICEBE. 

years  older  than  you  are,  Barry.  He  may  be  poor, 
but  he  won't  be  long,  the  way  he  works  and  the 
way  he  does  n't  waste  his  money  !  He 's  the  kind 
that  everybody  calls  reliable,  steady-going,  and  that 
sort  of  thing ;  but  for  all  that,  I  say  he  is  n't  any 
better  friend  than  any  of  the  others.  You  know 
yourself,  mamma,  you  've  wondered  that  he  has  n't 
come  all  winter." 

"  Oh,  well,  that  will  be  explained  some  time,  my 
child.  Trust  your  friends." 

"  If  you  've  got  any  to  trust !  Barry,  did  you 
write  to  him  and  tell  him  about  —  about  your 
getting  married  ?  "  asked  Honor. 

"  No,"  said  her  brother,  shortly. 

"  Perhaps  it 's  that.  You  ought  to  have  written 
to  him,  the  most  intimate  friend  you  've  got." 

It  became  more  and  more  apparent  that  a  young 
and  enthusiastic  person,  who  has  not  been  told  all 
the  truth,  is  a  very  uncomfortable  member  of  a 
divided  family  circle. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

TARTAR. 

THAT  night,  when  Phoebe  went  up  to  her  room, 
she  walked  thoughtfully  to  her  glass  and  looked 
in  it. 

"  Why  did  n't  he  tell  me  they  did  n't  wear 
pins  ?  "  she  said  to  herself,  pulling  out  the  great 
gold  brooch  and  thrusting  it  out  of  sight  in  an 
open  drawer.  There  was  something  in  the  gesture 
that  showed  vehemence  of  feeling,  —  vehemence, 
but  not  haste,  as  if  the  fire  had  been  kindled  some 
time  ago,  and  had  just  now  ripened  into  a  steady 
blaze.  Now  that  her  new  relations  were  not  look 
ing  at  her,  Phoebe  moved  without  constraint,  and 
with  a  sort  of  concentrated  purpose.  She  took  off 
the  black  silk,  which  she  had  learned  to  hate,  and 
put  on  a  white  wrapper,  and  sat  down  on  her  trunk, 
with  the  waist  of  the  dress  in  her  hand,  and 
pondered  deeply.  Not  a  detail  of  the  costume  of 
her  slender  young  sisters-in-law  had  escaped  her. 
She  exaggerated  the  defects  of  her  own,  and 
thought  of  herself  as  an  unwieldy  monster,  and  of 
the  black  silk  as  a  disfiguring  abomination.  Pres 
ently  she  took  a  pair  of  scissors  and  rapidly  ripped 


88  PHCEBE. 

up  the  sleeves ;  then  she  tore  off  the  tight  little 
band  around  the  neck,  and  cut  half  an  inch  or  so 
of  the  shoulder  seams.  She  gave  a  sigh  as  she 
thought  of  the  anxious  care  with  which  those 
stitches  had  been  put  in,  not  many  weeks  ago,  she 
and  her  mother  and  Amanda  Whittemore  giving 
their  nights  and  days  to  them.  How  much  more 
she  knew  now,  now  that  she  had  been  three  hours 
in  company  with  French  dresses  !  If  she  were  only 
back  there  at  home,  with  the  clatter  of  Amanda's 
machine,  and  the  simmer  of  the  tea-kettle  on  the 
stove,  and  her  mother's  tired  voice  in  her  ear !  She 
smothered  the  homesick  throb,  —  there  was  no  time 
now  to  be  homesick  ;  she  must  bend  her  whole 
mind  to  reconstructing  the  black  silk  before  to 
morrow  night.  It  must  be  tied  back,  she  said, 
shaking  out  the  skirt,  tied  back  in  two  places, 
and  some  of  the  fullness  taken  out  of  the  back. 
What  had  Amanda  been  thinking  of!  She  had 
made  her  a  "  figure  of  fun."  Then  she  had  a  happy 
thought.  She  went  into  the  depths  of  her  trunk 
and  drew  out  some  lace,  soft  and  pretty,  and  quite 
presentable  in  these  imitation  days.  She  had 
bought  it  of  a  dreadful  woman  who  went  about  the 
country  with  a  big  basket  covered  with  oilskin, 
and  perjured  herself  many  times  a  day  for  twenty 
cents  a  yard,  at  every  farmhouse.  Phoebe  un 
wound  it  and  shook  it  out.  She  turned  up  the 
sleeves  of  her  dress  to  the  elbow,  basted  the  silk 
ruffles  around  them,  and  then  put  a  double  row  of 


TARTAR.  89 

lace  below.  She  looked  with  satisfaction  on  her 
naked  arm  and  wrist.  She  turned  back  the  front 
of  the  dress,  with  its  vile  satin  buttons  out  of  sight, 
and  pulled  the  lace  around  her  neck,  in  the  form 
of  a  fichu  that  Lucy  had  worn.  Yes,  that  was  it,  — 
she  had  it ;  and  she  gave  a  sigh  of  relief.  She  put 
all  the  things  away  in  the  trunk,  lest  Barry  should 
come  up  and  see  them  ;  and  then  she  shook  down 
lier  beautiful  hair  and  brushed  it  out,  standing  be 
fore  the  glass  and  knitting  her  brows  as  she 
thought  of  the  difference  between  her  forehead 
and  Lucy's. 

"  I  can't  look  like  Lucy,"  she  reflected,  "  but  I 
can  wear  my  hair  down  in  my  neck." 

She  certainly  could  wear  her  hair  low  in  her 
neck.  It  went  into  that  formula  with  soft  docility. 
It  was  the  most  "biddable"  hair,  like  a  fine  poetic 
nature  with  no  resistance  in  it.  It  fell  down  in  a 
coil  around  Phcebe's  arm  as  she  took  out  the  comb, 
and  with  an  instinct  of  caress  she  raised  her  arm 
and  laid  it  against  her  cheek.  It  was  the  sort  of 
hair  you  wanted  to  touch,  and  smooth,  and  lay 
against  your  cheek. 

Yes,  she  certainly  could  wear  her  hair  twisted 
in  the  back  of  her  neck,  like  Lucy's.  That  was 
demonstrated,  and  still  deep  in  thought  she  began 
to  get  ready  for  bed.  Deep  in  thought,  indeed ;  it 
seemed  as  if  she  were  being  swallowed  up  in  a 
flood  of  new  thoughts,  impressions,  fears.  She  had 
the  intuitive  courage  of  youth,  and  her  want  of  ex- 


90  PHCEBE. 

perience  was  in  her  favor,  as  experience  of  failure 
is  not  inspiriting.  She  was  so  alone,  she  was  at 
such  a  disadvantage ;  she  dared  not  guess  with 
what  eyes  these  people  looked  upon  her.  And  her 
ignorance  !  —  from  the  forms  at  their  table  and  the 
fashions  of  their  dress  to  the  sentiments  of  their 
hearts  and  the  religion  of  their  souls,  she  was  in 
an  ignorance  the  most  profound.  She  dared  not 
ask  Barry ;  she  did  not  want  him  to  know  she  did 
not  know.  She  could  only  gaze,  guess,  apprehend 
with  every  sense,  study  with  her  whole  being,  put 
every  faculty  into  the  silent  work.  She  was  per 
ceptive,  she  was  young;  she  had  the  keen  surface 
intelligence  of  our  countrywomen,  and  the  habits 
of  mind  fostered  by  the  common-school  system. 
She  had  conquered  the  beetles  and  bugs  of  the 
Holy  Land.  She  would  conquer  the  spoons  and 
forks  of  this  higher  civilization.  She  was  self-re 
liant  because  her  nature  was  deep,  and  because  in 
it  lay  purposes  and  an  experience  that  weighted  it 
beyond  the  wont  of  natures  of  her  age.  Her  lone 
liness  was  only  comparative  now.  She  had  never 
been  used  to  confidences  with  her  mother,  and  she 
had  outgrown  her  few  school  friends  and  been  sep 
arated  from  them  since  she  left  the  illustrious  seat 
of  learning  where  she  had  perfected  herself  in  the 
higher  mathematics,  and  attained  distinction  in 
chemistry  and  mental  philosophy.  As  they  said, 
she  had  not  been  "  a  great  hand  "  for  intimacies, 
and  her  little  home  had  been  rather  smaller  than 


TARTAR.  91 

any  of  theirs,  and  much,  remoter;  and  after  her 
distinguished  success  in  graduating  at  the  head  of 
her  class,  she  had  rather  sunk  out  of  sight  of  her 
companions,  and  been  only  a  tradition  in  the  high 
school  town,  for  the  year  that  had  succeeded.  It 
was  not  new  to  her  to  feel  alone,  and  not  unnat 
ural.  All  the  same,  in  this  strange  land,  she 
longed,  with  a  tight  feeling  in  her  throat,  for  the 
sight  of  her  mother's  anxious  face  ;  for  the  sound 
of  Amanda  Whittemove's  shrill  chirrup,  for  the 
thump  of  the  dog's  tail  on  the  bare  kitchen  floor ; 
something  that  was  not  new  ;  something  that  had 
grown  familiar  in  long,  easy  years  ;  something, 
just  some  one  thing,  that  would  not  shock  and 
make  her  think ;  something  that  she  could  look  at 
or  listen  to,  not  speak  to.  It  was  not  a  necessity 
to  her  to  speak,  happily. 

The  next  evening,  at  seven,  when  the  two 
crossed  the  lawn  on  their  way  to  the  parental  din 
ner,  Phrebe  was  a  little  in  advance  of  her  compan 
ion. 

"  What  have  you  done  to  your  dress  ?  "  he  said. 
"  Has  Honor  been  teaching  you  how  to  get  your 
self  up  ?  " 

Honor,  indeed !  thought  Phoebe ;  but  she  only 
said  No  ;  she  had  n't  seen  Honor  since  the  night 
before. 

"  Well,  then,  you  've  done  it  very  well  by  your 
self." 

She  certainly  had.     The  soft  lace  subdued  the 


92  PH(EBE. 

shiny  black  silk,  and  her  white  throat  and  beauti 
ful  arms  made  one  forget  the  offensiveness  of  it. 
At  her  belt,  just  where  she  had  seen  Lucy  put  her 
bouquet,  she  wore  a  bunch  of  splendid  red  roses. 
The  change  in  the  arrangement  of  her  hair  made  a 
marked  improvement  in  her  appearance. 

Barry  repeated  in  a  tone  of  complacency,  "  By 
Jove,  you've  hit  it  exactly." 

When  a  lover  admires,  it  is  adulation,  homage, 
he  offers ;  when  a  husband  approves,  it  is  a  mere 
expression  of  complacency.  The  approvable  qual 
ities  belong  to  him ;  he  feels  that  a  demonstra 
tion  of  satisfaction  is  but  one  remove  from  ego 
tism.  It  is  all  right,  of  course,  but  it  is  not  quite 
so  pleasant.  Phoebe  gave  a  little  inaudible  sigh  to 
the  memory  of  a  happy  past,  and  then  accepted 
meekly  her  husband's  approbation.  It  was  better 
than  his  disapprobation,  at  least.  At  first  she 
had  felt,  rebelliously,  that  it  was  worse;  but  she 
•was  not  an  unreasonable  woman,  and  she  was 
making  use  of  all  her  powers  to  fit  herself  into 
her  place  and  to  be  reconciled  to  it.  Mental  phi 
losophy  and  the  higher  mathematics  had  helped 
her :  she  had  cause  to  be  thankful  that  all  that 
stimulates  the  imagination  had  been  left  out  of 
the  arid  curriculum  of  the  Brixton  High  School. 

She  certainly  had  reason  to  be  glad  that  she  had 
passed  muster,  as  they  walked  across  the  lawn  into 
the  very  jaws  of  criticism,  seated  in  solid  ante- 
dinner  phalanx  on  the  piazza.  Barry's  com  men- 


TARTAR.  93 

elation,  though  it  had  chilled  at  first,  like  a  cold 
bath,  invigorated  her  courage  and  sent  a  warm 
glow  through  her  as  a  secondary  effect.  The  eyes 
of  her  rival  should  not  daunt  her,  since  Barry 
had  said  she  had  "hit  it  exactly." 

The  rival,  the  rival's  aunt,  Mr.  Peyton  Edwards, 
and  her  father-in-law  had  all  arrived  in  an  earlier 
train  than  the  one  in  which  the  latter  had  coine 
the  evening  before,  and  had  been  driven  up  in  a 
superior  carriage  that  had  doubtless  been  ordered 
from  a  livery  stable  to  do  honor  to  the  guests. 
As  they  had  passed  the  cottage,  there  had  been  an 
eager  looking  out.  Barry  had  taken  a  holiday,  as 
he  was  not  to  go  into  business  life  at  the  office 
till  the  next  day.  He  had  been  loafing  about  all 
day,  unpacking  his  pipes  and  his  books,  rather 
enjoying  his  discoveries  about  the  little  domain, 
planning  improvements  and  talking  over  ways  and 
means.  The  dread  of  the  meeting  was  over,  every 
thing  had  proved  so  much  better  than  he  had  an 
ticipated,  the  getting  home  had  been  so  pleasant 
in  many  ways,  that  he  had  had  a  very  contented 
feeling.  The  day  had  been  fine,  even  warmer 
than  yesterday,  and  it  was  bliss  to  be  alive,  and  he 
was  young  besides.  When  that  superior  carriage 
passed,  he  was  sitting  in  the  little  porch,  in  a 
very  loaferly  attitude,  smoking.  He  had  forgot 
ten  it  was  time  for  them  to  arrive.  He  had  forgot 
ten  that  visitors  must  come  sometimes,  and  come 
awkwardly  near  his  poor  little  door,  and  look  in- 


94  PH(EBE. 

quisitively  in  at  his  poor  little  -windows.  He  had 
thought  about  it  often  enough,  all  winter  long, 
but  he  had  spent  a  whole  day,  the  world  forget 
ting,  in  a  sunshiny,  simple  content,  in  which  the 
instincts  of  new  home-making  were  entwined  with 
the  memories  of  old  home-loving.  The  rumble  of 
those  wheels  broke  the  charm.  He  started  up  and 
returned  the  greeting  of  the  new-comers  very 
gayly,  but  Phoebe  from  the  window  saw  the  dark 
flush  and  contraction  of  the  brow  that  succeeded. 
He  came  hurriedly  into  the  house  and  said  it  was 
time  to  dress  for  dinner.  During  the  hour  that 
followed,  he  found  everything  wrong :  the  dress 
ing-room  door,  the  low  window,  the  unutterable 
stupidity  of  Mary  Ann.  How  well  Phoebe,  though 
the  high  school  had  not  stimulated  her  imagina 
tion,  knew  why  the  house  had  that  moment  grown 
too  small,  the  lot  to  which  he  had  bound  himself 
too  oppressively  obscure!  His  cousin  Tartar,  with 
her  golden  coins  all  jingling,  had  passed  by.  Dis 
content  had  fluttered  noiselessly  in  at  the  open 
windows  on  little  stinging  wings,  and  when  would 
there  again  be  peace  at  Humble  Pie  ? 

But  when  they  were  dressed  and  both  of  them 
out  in  the  calm  summer  afternoon,  Barry  re 
covered  himself  a  little.  It  always  mended  his 
mood  to  be  well  washed  and  well  dressed.  He 
felt  his  empire  when  he  was  point  device.  Noth 
ing  ruffled  him  like  being  shabby  and  dusty.  And 
it  was  especially  soothing  to  him  that  Phoebe 


TARTAR.  95 

looked  so  handsome.  Handsome  was  a  poor  word  ; 
it  was  not  the  word  that  fitted  at  all ;  it  was  stiff, 
and  wooden,  and  red-cheeked,  and  middle  class. 
You  could  not  call  her  regal,  with  eyes  so  affec 
tionate  and  appealing ;  nor  splendid,  in  her  thin 
black  silk  and  imitation  lace ;  nor  magnificent, 
with  her  silent,  half-frightened  manners  ;  nor  spir 
itual,  with  all  that  wealth  of  flesh-and-blood  per 
fection  (as  flesh-and-blood  perfection  is  consid 
ered  to  be  incompatible  with  spiritual  perfection). 
Beautiful  is  a  word  that  like  manna  has  a  flavor  to 
each  man  of  what  he  likes  best.  Perhaps  each  of 
those  who  watched  her  come  across  the  lawn  and 
approach  the  piazza  thought,  each  in  his  or  her 
own  way,  How  beautiful  she  is,  after  all!  Aunt 
David  put  up  her  glass  to  her  elderly  eyes,  and 
made  the  comment  sharply  sotto  voce,  nodding 
her  head  as  she  did  it.  Mr.  Crittenden,  his  head 
a  little  bent  down,  looked  out  at  her  from  under 
his  dark  brows,  and  in  his  mind  emphasized  the 
adjective  which  he  had  overheard.  Peyton  Ed 
wards  moved  aside  as  she  came  up  the  steps,  and 
his  eyes  followed  her  with  something  like  wonder. 
Honor  had  been  telling  Tartar  about  the  black 
silk,  and  Lucy  had  been  looking  deep  reproach 
at  her  for  her  disloyalty.  Tartar  almost  caught 
her  breath,  —  with  surprise,  shall  we  say  ?  —  as 
this  singularly  beautiful  young  woman  entered 
upon  the  scene. 

She  went  through   the  introductions  tolerably 


96  PHCEBE. 

well ;  that  is,  she  did  not  color,  or  stammer,  or  put 
out  her  hand  in  the  wrong  place.  She  grew 
rather  pale,  and  did  not  do  much  but  drop  her 
eyes  and  move  her  lips  quite  in;iudibly  as  she  was 
presented  to  each  person.  It  certainly  would  have 
been  better  if  she  had  bent  her  head  a  little,  but 
she  seemed  to  have  forgotten  about  that,  or  did 
not  know.  Aunt  David  insisted  on  shaking  hands 
with  her,  so  she  had  to  look  up  for  an  instant  dur 
ing  that  ceremony. 

She  saw  a  thin  old  woman,  with  a  great  many 
wrinkles  and  a  very  bright  eye. 

"  I  've  alwayth  felt  ath  if  Barry  were  ray  own 
thon,"  she  said,  holding  Phoebe's  irresponsive 
hand  for  a  moment.  "  I  hope  you  '11  let  me  feel 
that  I  have  thorn  thiare  in  you." 

Phoebe  looked  again  furtively.  She  did  not 
make  up  her  mind  on  the  instant  whether  she  was 
prepared  to  say  Aunt  David  was  welcome  to  a 
share  in  her  or  not.  Aunt  David  was  very  in 
teresting.  She  was  distinguished  -  looking  ;  you 
could  see  people  always  wanted  to  listen  to  her, 
though  she  spoke  with  such  a  funny  lisp,  and  liked 
to  look  at  her,  though  she  was  twisted  with  rheu 
matism  and  wrinkled  with  age  and  yellow  with 
years  of  conflict  with  an  ungrateful  liver.  The  in 
definable  flavor  of  beauty  hung  round  its  ruins ;  no 
lack  of  physical  completeness  could  take  from  her 
the  power  to  attract  and  please.  She  had  been  a 
clever  young  woman,  and  she  was  a  clever  old 


TARTAR.  97 

woman,  with  a  fire  and  force  of  will  that  made  it 
self  still  felt. 

The  meeting  between  her  and  Barry  was  very 
warm.  She  took  both  his  hands,  and  they  had  so 
much  to  say  to  each  other  that  he  seemed  almost  to 
have  forgotten  Tartar,  who  had  spoken  to  Phoebe, 
and  was  waiting  to  speak  to  him.  At  last  he 
turned  to  her;  probably  he  had  not  forgotten  her, 
after  all.  She  was  evidently  a  little  embarrassed, 
but  she  did  not  fail  to  cloak  it  with  a  sharp  little 
flow  of  sarcasms,  for  which  her  sobriquet  would 
have  prepared  a  stranger.  Her  name  was  Sarah, 
but  she  had  been  called  Tartar  from  her  child 
hood,  which  had  been  a  very  tempestuous  and 
spoiled  one,  under  the  guardianship  of  her  Aunt 
David,  who  had  as  sharp  a  tongue  as  she.  Aunt 
David  publicly  said  she  was  the  worst  child  in 
the  United  States ;  but  as  she  seemed  to  love 
her  better  than  any  other  child  in  the  world,  it 
was  rather  offering  a  premium  on  badness.  Aunt 
David  was  strong-willed,  but  Tartar  was  stronger- 
willed.  With  great  frankness,  they  quarreled  in 
public  as  much  as  in  private.  Tartar  openly  be 
moaned  her  bad  temper,  but  set  it  down  to  inherit 
ance,  as  if  it  had  been  rheumatism.  Aunt  David 
was  very  worldly,  and  acknowledged  it.  Probably 
they  were  both  better  than  they  chose  to  admit. 
Tartar's  temper  was  not  unpleasant,  and  Aunt 
David  had  a  good  deal  of  heart,  notwithstanding 
her  worldliness. 
7 


98  PH(EBE. 

Tartar  was  rather  taller  than  Lucy ;  not  of 
course  so  tall  as  Phoebe.  She  was  dark,  with  blue- 
black  hair  and  flashing  black  eyes,  a  low  forehead, 
a  thin,  tolerably  well-formed  nose,  deep  dimples,  a 
fine  mouth,  a  little  too  large,  and  teeth  so  white 
that,  in  conjunction  with  the  dimples  and  the 
eyes,  a  smile  had  the  effect  of  a  sudden  display  of 
fireworks,  it  was  so  sudden  and  dazzling.  She 
was  decidedly  thin,  eminently  well  dressed. 

Phcebe  watched  her  furtively  as  Barry,  after  a 
moment's  welcome  of  Peyton  Edwards,  turned 
back  to  her  and  began  a  low  talk  with  her.  She 
stood  by  a  pillar  of  the  piazza,  with  the  vines  at 
her  back,  slender,  supple,  aristocratic-looking,  her 
thin,  small  brown  hands  opening  and  shutting, 
but  not  shai'ply,  a  fan  that  hung  from  her  waist, 
her  very  tiny  and  well-shod  feet  visible  below  her 
short  dress,  one  crossed  before  the  other.  There 
was  such  a  well-trained  look  about  her,  you 
could  not  imagine  her  not  having  done  everything 
before. 

Phcebe  could  not  hear  what  Barry  was  saying 
to  her.  (One  hopes,  of  course,  that  she  did  not 
want  to  hear.)  He  had  an  excellent  manner  with 
women ;  it  must  have  been  native,  for  no  one  re 
membered  when  he  did  not  have  it.  There  was 
something  between  a  caress  and  a  supplication 
in  his  tones.  While  he  did  not  show  any  lack  of 
self-confidence, — on  the  contrary,  his  acts  were 
all  based  upon  it,  —  that  quality  was  not  at  all 


TARTAR.  99 

brought  to  the  front ;  it  was  used  as  a  base, 
nothing  more.  Mistaken  men,  who  allow  it  to 
appear  above  ground  !  He  possibly  had  a  chival 
rous  regard  for  women  (also  native),  and  he  acted 
out  its  dictates  with  a  tentative  sort  of  amuse 
ment.  He  was  never  tired  of  the  success  of  his 
experiments  ;  they  were  a  continual  source  of  in- 
nocen't  enjoyment  to  him.  It  was  delightful  to 
him  to  awaken  Aunt  David's  enthusiasm ;  it  was 
equally  charming  to  him  to  know  that  the  two 
young  ladies  whose  tickets  he  had  picked  up  in 
the  cars  yesterday  would  thrill  at  the  thought  of 
the  adventure  for  a  week.  What  could  be  more 
harmless,  more  amiable  ?  It  was  surely  adding 
to  the  sum  of  human  happiness.  One  ought  to 
use  one's  gifts.  If  a  person  has  a  knack  at  fas 
cination,  it  must  be  the  right  thing  to  fascinate, — 
within  bounds. 

Phrebe  was  not  quite  prepared  for  the  devel 
opment  of  this  talent  in  her  husband.  She  had 
naturally  been  gratified  at  his  popularity  with  her 
mother  and  Amanda  Whittemore.  He  had  not 
been  thrown  into  any  other  female  society  in  Mai 
den.  As  he  was  equally  a  hero  in  the  eyes  of  Joe, 
the  "  hired  man,"  she  had  simply  concluded  that 
he  was  perfect,  and  that  every  one  of  both  sexes 
must  know  it,  sooner  or  later  Experiences  were 
multiplying  upon  her,  and  she  did  not  know  dis 
tinctly  what  she  was  to  think  about  anything. 
Probably  she  had  a  look  upon  her  face  that  in- 


100  PIHEBE. 

dicated  this  frame  of  mind,  for  Lucy  and  her 
mother  both  came  towards  her,  with  the  object  of 
making  her  feel  more  at  home  and  happy. 

Now  Phoebe  was  fatally  quick  in  some  of  her 
intuitions,  and  she  instantly  divined  their  purpose. 
She  was  not  obstinately  bent  on  feeling  unhappy 
and  not  at  home,  but  she  did  not  find  the  con 
dition  removed  by  the  consciousness  that  they 
were  making  this  amiable  effort  to  remove  it. 
Lucy  did  not  dare  to  try  the  flowers  again,  having 
found  that  her  new  sister  did  not  respond  the 
night  before.  She  also  had  a  misgiving  that  they 
would  not  have  read  the  same  books,  that  in  lit 
erature  they  had  not  any  common  ground.  The 
little  search  in  her  mind  for  something  to  talk 
about  made  itself  apparent  in  a  want  of  ease  and 
sympathy  of  manner.  Whatever  it  was  she  talked 
about,  it  had,  so  far,  led  to  nothing  but  "  I  don't 
know,"  and  "  I  had  n't  ever  thought  about  it." 
Lucy  looked  so  discouraged  that  her  mother,  who 
had  taken  a  seat  on  the  other  side  of  Phoebe, 
and  who  was  disguising  her  intent  and  anxious 
listening  by  great  attention  to  a  piece  of  embroid 
ery  in  her  hand,  came  to  the  rescue  by  asking 
some  question  about  the  little  menage.  Did 
Phoebe  think  that  she  could  get  along  with  Mary 
Ann,  by  having  some  one  in  to  wash  ? 

Now  to  Phoebe  Mary  Ann  herself  was  an  un 
precedented  luxury.  What  could  she  need  of  a 
woman  in  to  wash  ?  What  radical  difference  was 


TARTAR.  101 

there  between  the  keeping  of  a  little  house  in 
Maiden  and  the  keeping  of  a  little  house  in  Mar 
rowfat  ?  What  did  these  people  expect  her  to 
do  ?  She  answered  in  much  confusion  that  she 
did  n't  want  a  woman  in  to  wash,  she  thought. 

"  Perhaps  you  may  need  her  just  at  first,"  said 
the  mother,  "  before  Mary  Ann  gets  quite  accus 
tomed  to  her  work.  I  am  afraid  she  is  very  inex 
perienced.  But  you  and  Barry  will  always  come 
over  here  for  your  dinner,  and  that  will  make  it 
lighter  for  her." 

"  Oh,  I  'm  sure  we  shan't  have  to  do  that, 
ma'am." 

The  prospect  of  an  endless  chain  of  dinners 
like  to-day  and  yesterday  took  away  her  breath 
and  startled  her  quite  out  of  her  confusion  and 
embarrassment.  She  spoke  with  a  sincere  depre 
cation  there  was  no  mistaking.  The  mother  smoth 
ered  a  sigh  as  she  saw  the  chagrin  and  apprehen 
sion  on  her  face.  She  could  fancy  Barry  would 
not  prize  the  tete-a-tete  dinners  cooked  by  Mary 
Ann  as  much  as  she  would.  She  had  hoped  they 
as  a  family  would  not  be  so  terrible  to  her ;  but 
she  had  no  one  to  thank  for  it  but  herself.  She 
thought  of  the  poor  bewildered,  despairing  mother 
in  her  limp  crape  veil  and  shabby  black  dress, 
making  her  way  across  the  lawn  in  that  November 
rain.  No  wonder  her  daughter  felt  she  was  in  an 
enemy's  country. 

The  way  did  not  look  very  clear  to  Mrs.  Grit- 


102  PHCEBE. 

tenden  as  she  bent  her  head  over  her  embroidery. 
All  around  her  there  was  the  sound  of  voices, 
easy,  merry,  such  as  she  had  been  used  to  hearing 
in  the  happy  times  that  were  past.  The  piazza 
looked  like  the  old  life.  One  could  have  imagined 
it  last  summer,  but  for  the  silent  daughter-in-law 
at  her  elbow,  whom  Lucy  was  taxing  her  ingenuity 
to  entertain.  Barry  bending  toward  his  gypsy- 
dark  cousin  with  his  manner  of  devotion  looked 
like  last  summer :  the  picture  of  the  two  figures 
had  always  given  her  keen  satisfaction  before, 
and  now  it  was  with  such  a  pang  she  looked  at 
them.  Whichever  way  she  turned,  whatever  she 
saw,  there  came  one  thought.  It  was  like  a  long 
song  with  one  termination  to  each  verse.  Have  I 
done  right  ? 

Peyton  and  Honor  were  talking  to  each  other. 
Mr.  Crittenden  was  listening  to  Aunt  David  with 
a  half-absent  smile,  occasionally  his  eyes  wander 
ing  to  the  pair  standing  by  the  vine-clad  pillar. 
The  declining  sunshine  shone  across  the  piazza 
from  the  west ;  the  soft  air  was  full  of  the  faint 
twitter  of  birds  and  the  faint  perfume  of  flowers 
and  leaves  not  yet  matured.  The  shadows  on  the 
lawn  were  making  the  rich,  pure  green  of  the  new 
grass  beautiful  where  the  sunshine  struck  it.  The 
external  peacefulness  and  beauty  of  her  home  had 
never  seemed  greater  to  her  than  at  that  moment. 
But  for  the  presence  of  the  girl  beside  her,  the  in 
ternal  peacefulness  and  beauty  might  have  been 


TARTAR.  103 

as  great,  it  seemed  to  her.  Had  she  done  right  ? 
Ah  well,  nothing  could  put  them  back  to  where 
they  were  last  June.  It  was  useless  to  recall  the 
past.  If  Phoebe  were  not  here  in  bodily  presence, 
there  would  be  an  intangible  sin  that  would  inter 
fere  as  much,  perhaps,  with  the  internal  calm.  But 
it  is  difficult,  in  all  moods,  to  credit  the  intangible 
with  its  full  power. 

This  Phoebe  was  a  nightmare.  Why  was  she 
here  ?  If  she  were  not,  all  their  contented  pleas 
ant  dreams  would  have  seemed  in  the  way  of  ful 
fillment.  Had  they  done  right  ?  She  never  could 
divest  herself  of  the  feeling  that  she  was  accounta 
ble  for  the  marriage,  and  she  alone.  Without  his 
father's  aid  and  permission  Barry  simply  could  not 
have  married,  and  she  had  no  clew  to  the  part  his 
wishes  and  his  conscience  had  had  in  the  matter. 
Since  she  had  seen  the  girl,  she  could  imagine  he 
would  have  regretted  parting  from  her ;  but  there 
had  been  nothing  in  his  manner  towards  her  to  in 
dicate  any  such  devotion  as  would  render  easy  the 
sacrifice  of  all  his  prospects  of  success.  This  epi 
sode  of  her  son's  life  was  a  sealed  book  to  her : 
about  it  she  could  only  speculate.  The  part  she 
had  played  in  it  lay  heavy  at  her  heart.  It  is 
hard  that  our  convictions  which  are  strong  enough 
to  bear  us  into  action  have  a  way  of  balking  and 
weakening  and  turning  coward  when  we  are  fairly 
in  the  field.  Now,  when  the  consciousness  of  duty 
fulfilled  should  have  made  her  strong  and  helped 


104  PIKEBE. 

her  to  overcome  difficulties,  she  found  her  moral 
forces  in  a  panic.  She  would  have  given  a  great 
deal  to  have  seen  Barry's  marriage  in  the  light  in 
which  she  had  seen  it  during  that  week  when  she 
gave  her  husband  no  rest  till  he  had  consented  to 
/  nake  it  possible. 

"  Mamma,"  said  Lucy  across  the  speechless 
Phoebe,  "  don't  you  find  Peyton  looking  thin  ?  It 
seems  to  me  he  has  altered.  He  must  have  been 
working  hard." 

"  Let  us  call  him  here  and  ask  him,"  said  her 
mother,  laying  her  embroidery  on  her  knee,  and 
giving  up  the  problem  of  making  Phoabe  talk. 
"Peyton,  Lucy  thinks  you  have  been  overwork 
ing,"  she  said,  raising  her  voice. 

Peyton  came  across  the  piazza  and  stood  before 
them.  Honor  followed,  for  they  were  all  on  the 
most  intimate  footing,  and  if  Peyton  was  not  a 
cousin  he  ought  to  have  been,  for  the  frank  affection 
they  all  felt  for  him.  He  and  Tartar  and  Barry 
had  been  playmates  from  childhood.  Lucy  had 
been  a  little  younger,  and  not  quite  of  the  camara 
derie,  while  Honor  had  been  the  baby  and  play 
thing  of  them  all.  Peyton  was  as  tall  as  Barry, 
.  but  not  as  well  filled  out.  He  was  not  thin,  ex 
actly  ;  muscular,  probably.  His  shoulders  were  a 
little  squarer  than  most  men's,  and  he  gave  one  the. 
impression  of  awkwardness ;  but  he  was  not  awk 
ward,  at  least  if  awkwardness  means  want  of  ease. 
He  was  easy.  He  had  no  trouble  about  the  dispo- 


TARTAR.  105 

sition  of  his  limbs.  He  moved  well  enough.  It 
was  chiefly  when  one  compared  him  to  Barry  that 
he  gave  the  impression  of  being  wanting  in  grace. 
He  was  not,  either,  a  handsome  man.  His  hair 
was  a  light,  very  light,  brown  ;  he  had  been  one  of 
those  tow-headed,  freckled,  little-nosed,  blue-eyed 
boys,  of  whom  one  wonders  that  anybody  but 
their  mothers  know  them,  there  are  so  many  of 
them  in  every  school  and  in  every  town  and  vil 
lage.  One  is  moved  to  admire  the  quality  of 
indefeasible  individuality  that  belongs  to  all  the 
works  of  creation,  that  they  are  so  known.  What 
made  Peyton  Edwards  to  differ  from  his  many 
little  similar  fellows  it  would  have  been  difficult 
to  say.  He  did  not  shine  in  anything  ;  he  was 
generally  to  be  found  in  the  middle  of  his  class, 
not  by  any  chance  to  be  mistaken  for  the  head  or 
the  foot ;  he  was  not  especially  anything  but  him 
self.  But  he  was  himself,  and  people  that  knew 
him  well,  liked  him,  and  people  that  did  not,  did 
not  think  much  about  him.  He  was  the  Fidus 
Achates  of  Barry  Crittenden.  Mrs.  Crittenden, 
who  speculated  a  great  deal  about  her  children's 
preferences,  decided  it  must  be  because  he  was  of 
a  neutral  tint,  which  suited  the  gorgeous  efflores 
cence  of  Barry,  as  a  gay  clump  of  hollyhocks 
would  choose,  if  they  could  be  asked,  a  gray  stone 
wall  for  a  background.  It  was  possible  she  under 
rated  him.  She  had  a  kind  interest  in  him;  but 
how  could  any  one,  used  to  the  contemplation  of 


106  PH(EBE. 

Barry,  see  anything  more  than  qualities  to  inspire 
a  kind  interest,  in  him  ?  It  was  the  habit  of  the 
family  to  speak  of  Barry's  affection  for  him  as 
something  which  reflected  great  credit  on  his  (Bar 
ry's)  kindness  of  heart.  His  devotion  to  Barry 
explained  itself. 

The  contrast  between  the  freckled  little  com 
monplace  and  the  young  Adonis  had  decreased 
somewhat  as  the  years  went  on.  The  freckles 
had  disappeared  and  given  place  to  a  decent  tan  ; 
the  sinewy  urchin  had  lengthened  out  into  a  mus 
cular,  if  not  graceful,  youth.  His  hair  was  not 
quite  so  sandy,  and  his  mustache  not  a  bad  color. 
His  blue  eyes  had  always  been  nice  in  expression, 
even  to  those  who  thought  they  looked  like  every 
body  else's  blue  eyes.  His  nose  partook  of  the 
general  neutrality  of  his  features.  If  questioned 
about  it  five  minutes  after  parting  with  him,  you 
would  not  have  been  able  to  give  any  satisfactory 
account  of  it.  His  mouth,  what  one  could  divine 
of  it  under  his  mustache,  was  good,  and  his  chin  by 
no  means  lacked  firmness.  He  was  silent  but  he 
was  not  stupid,  withdrawing  but  not  hanging  back, 
shy  but  not  shamefaced. 

When  he  came  across  the  piazza,  in  consequence 
of  Mrs.  Crittenden's  observation  about  his  over 
working,  he  stood  by  the  railing  before  her  with 
out  embarrassment,  though  with  no  bravado,  and 
answered  the  personal  remark  very  simply. 

"No,  Mrs.  Crittenden,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  think 


TARTAR.  107 

I  Ve  been  overworking,  but  I  should  have  been  if 
I  'd  done  any  more.  It  does  n't  hurt  you,  you 
know,  up  to  a  certain  point.  I  think  I've  learned 
just  where  the  point  is,  and  I  always  stop  this  side 
of  it." 

"  Does  Barry  know?  "  said  Honor.  "  You  ought 
to  drive  in  a  stake  and  not  let  him  go  beyond. 
He  might  injure  himself.  He  begins  going  to  the 
office  to-morrow,  and  we  don't  want  him  broken 
down." 

And  then  they  laughed,  as  if  Barry's  laziness 
were  a  classic  jest  in  the  family.  Phoebe  reddened. 
She  knew  it  was  unreasonable  that  his  own  mother 
and  sisters  should  not  be  at  liberty  to  make  jokes 
about  him;  but  it  was  horrid  to  feel  anybody 
could  do  it.  Till  now  she  had  known  more  of  him 
than  any  one  else ;  now  she  seemed  to  know  less, 
and  have  less  right.  Peyton  saw  the  color  spread 
over  her  beautiful  face,  upon  which  he  was  looking 
down. 

"  Barry  '11  work  hard  enough  now,  you  need  n't 
be  afraid,"  he  said,  and  then  he  turned  the  talk 
away  from  the  matter.  Presently  Phoebe  looked 
up,  actually  looked  up  into  his  face,  and  anon  said 
something  of  her  own  accord.  It  was  the  very 
smallest  observation,  a  mere  bubble  in  the  ice  of 
silence,  but  it  gave  Mrs.  Crittenden  a  world  of  en 
couragement. 

"  These  two  silent  people  understand  each  other," 
she  thought.  "  We  are  too  diffuse,  and  drown  out 
their  faint  possibilities." 


108  PHCEBE. 

She  based  upon  this  a  re-arrangement  of  the 
dinner-table.  Peyton  sat  by  Phcebe,  and  Barry 
took  Tartar  in.  It  certainly  was  a  good  distribu 
tion,  and  helped  the  poor  country  girl  very  much. 
She  needed  help.  What  with  their  strange  things 
to  eat  and  their  strange  ways  of  eating  them,  the 
freedom  and  familiarity  of  their  manners  with  her 
husband,  the  strained  and  anxious  character  of 
their  manners  with  her,  her  natural  reserve,  her 
unavoidable  ignorance,  her  heaviness  of  heart,  her 
consciousness  of  blame,  it  is  surely  quite  apparent 
that  she  needed  help.  It  was  undeniable  help  to 
sit  by  one  who  would  have  been  nearly  as  silent 
as  herself  if  they  had  left  him  alone,  and  who  un 
doubtedly  understood  how  silent  people  felt.  He 
took  care  of  her,  too,  in  little  ways  that  he  could 
not  have  done  if  he  had  been  busy  in  talking  the 
strange  nonsense  about  strange  people  that  occu 
pied  the  others.  A  dismal  certainty  was  creeping 
over  Phoebe, —  a  certainty  that  she  should  never  be 
at  home  here,  that  she  was  more  out  of  place  even 
than  she  had  feared.  She  felt  so  dull.  Her  small 
powers  seemed  to  be  shrinking  into  nothing.  The 
talk  at  the  table  no  doubt  was  bright  and  viva 
cious,  but  nothing  more ;  the  easy  chat  of  well-bred 
people  who  know  each  other  intimately  and  have 
a  hundred  points  of  common  interest.  She  did  not 
know  the  names  even  of  those  they  talked  about. 
She  could  not  understand  the  allusions  they  made. 
The  language  they  spoke  was  not  the  language  of 


TARTAR.  109 

Maiden,  nor  yet  of  high  school  Brixton.  Her 
heart  ached,  or  rather  it  was  numb.  A  deadly 
sort  of  homesickness  filled  her  for  a  home  to  which 
she  did  not  want  to  go.  When  she  had  come 
away  from  Maiden,  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  shak 
ing  the  dust  off  her  feet.  The  events  of  the  past 
few  months  had  embittered  her  recollection  of 
home.  Companions  and  neighbors  of  her  whole 
life  had  stood  aloof  in  her  time  of  trouble ;  bitter 
and  sweet  were  bound  up  in  her  memories  of  the 
little  hamlet,  but  the  bitter  were  stronger  than 
the  sweet,  and  she  could  not  turn  to  them  with 
comfort  in  this  dreary  time. 

She  was  so  afraid  some  one  would  see  she  could 
not  eat.  Peyton  saw,  but  she  did  not  mind  him, 
and  her  mother-in-law,  but  she  did  not  say  any 
thing. 

There  were  two  windows  towards  the  west,  in 
the  room,  arid  the  pink  sky  shed  through  them  a 
lovely  light.  Through  the  south  windows  came 
glimpses  of  the  orchard,  and  the  tree-tops  in  the 
ravine,  and  the  blue  hills  beyond.  The  table,  to 
Phoebe  unfamiliar  with  the  details  of  such  service, 
looked  glittering  and  gay,  and  almost  magnificent. 
The  odors  of  the  wine,  the  flowers,  and  the  un 
known  dishes  made  it  seem  to  her  like  a  feast  of 
royalty.  In  plain  fact,  it  was  a  nice  little  well- 
served  dinner,  for  which  Lucy  had  decanted  a  bot 
tle  of  her  father's  best  sherry  which  had  considera 
ble  bouquet,  in  honor  of  Aunt  David,  and  for  which 


110  PIHEBE. 

she  had  gathered  her  prettiest  flowers  in  honor  of 
her  dearest  Barry's  coming  back  to  them  once  more. 
If  it  was  a  feast  of  royalty,  it  was  the  inner  kind, 
—  the  royalty  of  high  natures  and  pure  affections. 
But  whatever  it  was,  Phoebe  felt  it  was  not  her 
place  to  sit  at  it.  She  looked  across,  when  she 
dared,  to  Barry,  to  see  if  he  had  no  look  or  word  to 
help  her  with.  But  how  could  he  help  her  ?  There 
was  Tartar  on  one  side  and  Aunt  David  on  the 
other,  and  such  a  fire  of  pleasantry  to  be  answered 
as  left  him  no  moment  for  her.  Honor  was  on  her 
side  of  the  table  beyond  Peyton.  She  was  in  a 
very  saucy  inood,  and  was  not  sparing  any  one, 
except  Phoabe,  whom  she  had  forgotten,  probably. 
Even  the  father,  careworn  and  severe,  had  a  re 
laxed  though  half-cynical  smile  on  his  face.  Tar 
tar  was  a  great  favorite  with  him.  The  half  of 
the  smile  that  was  genuine  was  due  to  his  pleasure 
that  she  was  their  guest,  the  half  that  was  cyn 
ical,  to  the  fact  that  she  could  never  be  anything 
else.  He  had  recently  been  growing  a  great  re 
spect  for  wealth,  an  unwholesome  crop  that  is 
pretty  sure  to  spring  up  after  a  devastating  finan 
cial  trouble.  It  was  surely  something  to  be  cyn 
ical  about,  to  have  let  a  clever,  handsome  girl, 
with  half  a  million,  slip  through  one's  fingers,  and 
to  have  brought  up  instead  such  a  lifeless,  heavy 
piece  of  flesh  and  blood  as  he  was  obliged  to  rec 
ognize  as  his  son's  wife.  They  had  been  a  pack 
of  fools.  He  could  not  even  look  at  her,  but 


TARTAR.  Ill 

turned  his  eyes  away,  and  watched  Barry  and  his 
cousin  instead.  Barry  had  a  little  flush  on  his 
cheek  ;  he  was  merry,  and  his  delicious  mirth-pro 
voking  laugh  interlarded  the  conversation  liberally. 

"  Barry  hath  n't  forgotten  how  to  laugh,"  said 
Aunt  David.  Aunt  David  liked  the  little  dinner ; 
it  was  thoroughly  good.  She  liked  the  best  sherry 
and  the  flowers  ;  she  liked  the  company.  She  even 
had  an  eye  for  the  rose-flushed  sky  and  the  good 
view  from  the  south  windows.  She  was  very  well 
suited  with  her  surroundings  ;  and  if  she  had  a 
regret  for  the  alliance  rendered  impossible  by  the 
presence  of  the  passive  bride  opposite,  she  had  the 
good  sense  not  to  show  it.  There  was  no  cynicism 
apparent  in  the  flattering,  almost  fond  attention 
which  she  lavished  on  Barry. 

"  He  hath  n't  forgotten  how  to  laugh,"  she  said. 
"My  dear,"  to  Phoebe,  "doeth  he  alwayth  laugh 
like  that,  even  when  you  are  by  your  two 
thelveth?" 

Phoebe  looked  up,  and  tried  to  answer  steadily ; 
it  was  the  first  word  she  had  been  required  to  say 
in  public,  as  it  were,  for  every  one  was  listening 
now,  and  her  monosyllables  to  Peyton  had  not 
counted  before. 

"  Yes,  I  believe  lie  does  mostly,  ma'am." 

What  was  it  in  these  very  simple  words  that 
made  Barry  redden,  that  made  Tartar  suddenly 
bend  over  and  begin  to  crumb  into  fragments  the 
bread  beside  her  plate,  that  plainly  disconcerted 


112  riKEBE. 

Lucy,  and  made  Aunt  David  press  her  thin  lips 
together  involuntarily,  and  begin  vehemently  to 
talk  about  something  else?  Phoebe  wondered. 
She  ran  over  the  sentence  in  her  mind  :  she  parsed 
it  by  the  best  Brixton  method,  she  scanned  it,  she 
turned  it  inside  out,  she  tried  to  divine  any  hidden 
meaning.  She  knew  it  did  not  sound  like  Tartar, 
or  Lucy,  or  Honor.  Wherein  lay  the  difference  ? 
It  was  right,  but  it  was  wrong ;  perhaps  it  was 
mostly,  perhaps  it  was  that  wretched  ma'am. 
She  remembered  with  a  sort  of  faintness  that  she 
had  never  heard  any  one  but  the  servants  say 
ma'am  here.  Her  face  grew  red  as  she  sat,  with 
downcast  eyes,  thinking  it  over.  Why  had  n't 
Barry  told  her  ?  But  then  he  could  n't  tell  her 
everything.  He  should  n't  mind  such  a  little 
thing,  but  he  did  mind  ;  she  could  see  that.  She 
spent  the  rest  of  dinner  planning  what  she  would 
say  to  him  when  they  should  be  alone  ;  how  she 
would  tell  him  he  need  n't  be  afraid,  she  'd  never 
say  ma'am  again  to  any  of  his  people,  not  even  to 
his  greatest  grandmother.  Phoebe  could  be  pas 
sionate,  sarcastic,  everything,  in  her  imaginary 
speeches,  with  all  the  greater  freedom  that  she 
knew  she  never  would  get  them  said  in  real  fact. 
When  she  came  to  wanting  to  say  them,  some 
mysterious  power  raised  the  drawbridge  of  speech, 
and  she  was  left  spell-bound,  a  moat  of  silence 
round  her. 

It  certainly  had  sounded  provincial,  that  meek 


TARTAR.  113 

little  answer  of  Phoebe's  to  Aunt  David.  It  was 
not  to  be  denied  that  besides  the  offensive  ma'am 
and  undesirable  mostly  there  was  an  intonation  — 
faint,  it  is  true,  but  defined  —  that  marked  the  dis 
tance  between  Brixton  and  the  great  city.  Her 
voice  was  so  sweet  that  the  ear  once  familiar  with 
the  accent  forgot  it  as  anything  offensive.  Barry 
had  been  used  to  it  for  so  many  months,  he  had 
forgotten  the  offense ;  hearing,  in  fact,  no  speech 
that  differed  from  it  except  in  degree  of  provin 
cialism.  But  now,  with  Tartar's  fine,  clear  tones 
in  his  ear,  with  the  subtly  different  voices  of  edu 
cated  people  all  around  him,  he  heard  it,  and  he 
reddened.  He  was  not  to  blame  for  that.  No 
body  walks  the  earth  who  has  kept  himself  from 
reddening  by  an  effort  of  the  will. 

When  they  were  once  away  from  the  table,  she 
breathed  freer.  It  was  something  to  be  out  of 
range  of  the  eyes  of  that  terrible  old  woman  and 
that  no  less  terrible  young  one.  Her  immediate 
relatives  became  almost  friends  in  comparison.  She 
knew  they  did  not  want  her  laughed  at,  for  their 
own  sakes.  She  did  not  believe  they  would  per 
mit  any  disrespect  in  speaking  of  her ;  hard  and 
unloving  as  she  believed  the  parents  of  her  hus 
band  to  be  towards  her,  she  knew  they  would  in  a 
sense  protect  her  against  the  world.  It  was  there 
fore  not  with  a  fear  that  she  was  to  be  discussed 
that  she  saw  Mr.  Crittenden  go  down  the  steps 
with  Tartar  and  turn  in  the  direction  of  the  gar- 
8 


114  PH(EBE. 

den.  The  young  lady  had  put  her  hand  through 
her  guardian's  arm  ;  he  laid  his  own  over  it  in  a 
caressing  manner,  unusual  with  him  even  with  his 
own  children.  It  was  quite  understood  in  the  fam 
ily  that  Tartar  was  in  high  favor  with  him.  He 
was  now  taking  her  away  to  see  his  vegetables,  in 
which  interest  she  was  very  sympathetic.  Pey 
ton  did  not  leave  Phoabe.  They  sat  down  on  the 
piazza.  Presently  Aunt  David  and  Barry  wan 
dered  away  in  the  direction  of  the  garden,  too. 
The  old  lady  leaned  upon  him  confidently.  She 
was  talking  constantly,  and  Barry  was  laughing 
and  animated.  Lucy  was  playing  a  symphony  of 
Beethoven  in  the  twilight  of  the  library.  Honor 
fed  her  cats  under  a  snow-ball  bush  which  had 
been  their  dining-room  for  many  seasons.  Her 
mother  gave  audience  to  a  departing  seamstress  at 
the  other  end  of  the  piazza. 

"Shan't  we  walk  to  the  gate?"  said  Peyton, 
who  had  seen  a  longing  look  towards  the  little 
cottage  on  his  companion's  face.  She  had  in  fact 
been  feeling  she  would  fly  there  if  she  dared  ;  she 
was  homesick  and  unhappy,  and  that  was  her  only 
shelter.  It  was  something  to  walk  past  it,  and 
she  got  up  to  go  with  him.  Peyton  looked  about 
him,  as  they  reached  the  path,  with  an  affection 
ate  familiarity.  The  soft  evening  light  made 
the  cottage  rather  indistinct  through  the  trees, 
whereas  in  the  day  it  was  only  too  apparent. 
Mary  Ann's  dish-cloths  were  always  in  distinct 


TARTAR. 

view  from  the  piazza,  and  an  indiscreet  saucepan 
set  out  to  cool  would  be  a  picture  from  the  par 
lor  window.  With  different  degrees  of  bitterness, 
these  anticipated  trials  had  been  dwelt  upon  in 
the  silent  minds  of  the  mistress  of  the  big  house 
and  the  mistress  of  the  cottage.  But  "  dewy 
eve  her  curtain  draws  over  the  world's  turmoil." 
The  cottage  looked  dim,  bowery,  picturesque,  in 
capable  of  dish-cloths  and  sauce-pans.  Peyton 
told  Phoebe,  as  they  walked  slowly  along  the  car 
riage  road,  that  he  believed  he  knew  every  inch  of 
the  inclosure,  and  could  draw  a  map  of  every  tree 
and  shrub,  and  every  angle  of  the  fence.  He 
showed  her  where  Barry  and  he  had  their  rabbit 
hutch,  where  they  built  their  snow-forts,  and 
pointed  out  where  the  coasting  was  in  winter  and 
where  the  little  tents  in  summer.  Phoebe  liked  to 
hear  the  story  of  her  husband's  boyhood  from 
Peyton  ;  she  was  willing  that  he  should  have 
known  him  before  she  did. 

They  went  to  the  gate  and  looked  up  and  down 
the  road,  and  then  sauntered  slowly  back.  As 
they  neared  the  cottage,  coming  upon  it  from  its 
parlor  end,  where  it  looked  best,  Peyton  glanced 
with  interest  towards  it,  and  said,  how  they  had 
changed  it,  how  pretty  it  was. 

"  Won't  you  go  in  and  look  at  it  ?  "  she  asked, 
hesitatingly. 

He  was  very  glad  to  go,  and  they  went  in  to 
the  little  porch.  It  was  very  dim  there,  and 


116  PHCEBE. 

they  stumbled  a  little,  getting  inside  the  door. 
There  Peyton  stood,  leaning  against  the  post, 
while  Phoabe  sought  the  matches  and  made  a  light. 
He  watched  her  while  she  carried  the  candle,  with 
its  pale  light,  to  the  table  where  the  lamp  stood. 
Her  movements  were  graceful  and  free  here  on 
her  own  ground.  The  light  sprang  up  warmly 
under  her  touch,  and  the  pretty  little  room  seemed 
anything  but  despicable  to  Peyton,  with  such  a 
Juno  as  its  permanent  endowment.  He  came  in, 
and  they  went  around  the  room,  moving  chairs 
and  tables  judiciously  to  be  able  to  do  it,  and  ex 
amined  the  little  ornaments,  and  the  mirror  frame 
that  Lucy  had  painted,  and  the  lambrequin  that 
Honor  had  worked.  They  both  looked  pretty 
large  for  the  room  when  they  were  standing  up, 
but  soon  they  sat  down,  and  did  the  rest  of  their 
talking  at  a  better  advantage.  It  was  a  good 
while  before  Peyton  glanced  up  at  the  clock  and 
said  he  did  n't  know  it  was  so  late.  Did  n't  she 
think  they  ought  to  go  back  now  ?  A  cloud  came 
over  her  face  at  once,  and  the  stiff,  embarrassed 
speech  returned. 

"  I  don't  think  I  need  go  back,"  she  said,  not 
moving.  Peyton  looked  troubled. 

"  They  —  they  '11  expect  you." 

"  I  don't  think  it  '11  make  any  difference,"  she 
returned. 

"•  I  know,  of  course,  you  're  one  of  them,"  he 
said.  "  I  should  think  —  that  is,  if  one  can  feel  so 


TARTAR.  117 

about  people  that  are  not  really  one's  own  —  that 
you  will  be  very  —  much  attached  —  to  them  in  a 
little  while.  I  've  been  here  so  much,  ever  since 
I  was  a  little  shaver,  I  feel  as  if  I  knew  them  in 
side  and  out." 

Phoebe  did  not  offer  any  opposition,  neither  did 
she  seem  to  acquiesce. 

The  trouble  on  Peyton's  face  did  not  pass  away. 
"  I  've  always  thought,"  he  said,  slowly,  "  that  Mrs. 
Crittenden  was  the  best  woman  in  the  world." 

Still  Phoebe  did  not  answer,  but  sat  looking 
down,  passing  slowly  backward  and  forward  over 
the  lap  of  her  dress  a  spray  of  honeysuckle  that 
she  held  in  her  hand. 

"She's  always  just,"  he  said,  "and  that  isn't 
an  every-day  thing,  you  know.  She  has  a  good 
judgment  like  a  man,  and  yet  a  soft  heart  like  a 
woman."  Phoebe  probably  thought  of  the  dom 
iciliary  visit  of  the  poor  widow  from  Maiden,  for 
her  lips  grew  tight  and  her  forehead  a  trifle 
creased.  Peyton  saw  he  was  not  making  a  good 
thing  of  it. 

"  I  suppose  she  's  reserved,"  he  said,  —  "not  one 
of  those  women  that  take  an  interest  in  every 
body  ;  but  once  your  friend  always  your  friend. 
I  think  she  would  help  any  one  she  meant  well  to, 
consistently,  in  great  matters  and  small,  to  the 
end  of  her  life.  I  think  consistency  is  a  great 
thing,  don't  you  ?  So  few  people  are  consistent 
all  the  way  through  ;  it  takes  a  great  deal  more 


118  PHCEBE. 

character  than  to  be  anything  else ;  you  use  up  so 
much  in  qualities  that  ai-e  n't  generally  noticed." 

"  Very  likely,"  said  Phoebe,  not  absent-mind 
edly,  but  absent-heartedly. 

"It's  difficult  to  say  why  you  think  different 
people  will  like  each  other,"  said  Peyton,  awk 
wardly,  getting  up,  with  his  head  very  near  the 
ceiling,  "but  I  felt  sure,  from  the  moment  I  saw 
you,  that  you  and  Mrs.  Crittenden  would  be  good 
friends.  You  know  Barry  is  like  a  brother  to  me, 
and  I  could  n't  wish  him  better  luck  than  to  have 
his  mother  and  his  wife  get  on  together." 

The  paths  of  diplomacy  are  very  thorny,  espe 
cially  in  their  earlier  stages.  This  was  Peyton's 
first  essay  in  social  finesse,  and  he  had  no  reason 
to  feel  elated  with  his  success.  He  felt  very  hot 
and  embarrassed,  as  he  went  out  into  the  dark 
alone  and  remembered  what  he  had  said.  He  was 
afraid  he  had  been  more  than  questionably  im 
pertinent  :  what  possible  right  had  he  to  force  his 
advice  upon  this  unhappy  girl,  whose  dignity 
touched  him  instead  of  chilling  him?  He  could 
not  explain  to  himself  what  had  moved  him  to 
speak,  when  in  every  other  situation  in  life  he 
would  have  kept  silence.  But  the  feeling  had 
been  too  strong  for  him ;  even  now  he  felt  that,  if 
it  were  to  be  done  over  again,  he  would  do  the 
same.  He  saw  the  trouble  the  poor  young  wife 
was  in,  and  the  rescue  that  was  held  out  to  her. 
How  could  he  make  her  see  and  take  hold  of  the 


TARTAR.  119 

rope  that  was  within  her  reach  ?  It  would  have 
been  impossible  for  him  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Critten- 
den  ;  it  would  be  equally  impossible  for  him  to 
speak  to  Barry.  Why  it  was  possible  for  him  to 
speak  to  Phoebe  was  one  of  those  mysteries  that 
one  has  to  accept,  and  not  solve,  in  the  matter  of 
reticent  natures.  When  one  thinks  of  the  varied 
forms  of  misunderstanding  that  are  possible  in  a 
world  peopled  with  such  varied  tempers,  tempera 
ments,  whims,  wills,  concealments,  prejudices,  and 
perplexities,  it  seems  amazing,  not  that  there  is  so 
much  discord,  but  that  there  is  anything  else.  It 
is  difficult  to  decide  whether  the  outspoken  people 
or  the  inarticulate  people  contribute  most  to  the 
general  misunderstanding. 

Peyton  walked  up  and  down  in  the  shrubbery 
several  minutes  before  he  could  get  sufficiently 
over  the  sense  of  oppression  that  these  thoughts 
suggested,  to  go  into  the  house.  He  must  let  them 
go  their  way,  he  supposed,  but  it  was  a  bad  job. 
He  only  wondered  that  anybody  lived  in  peace, 
since  there  are  so  many  bad  people  in  the  world ; 
what  must  be  their  condition,  when  these  good 
ones  seemed  to  have  such  difficulty  in  coming  to 
an  understanding ! 

Phosbe's  reflections  were  not  so  general  in  their 
character,  but  even  more  oppressive.  After  Pey 
ton  went  away,  she  moved  restlessly  about  the 
small  premises  for  a  little  while  ;  then,  with  a  wise 
instinct  to  seek  employment  as  a  defense  against 


120  PIKE  BE. 

bad  thoughts,  went  groping  her  way  up  the  nar 
row  stairs.  There  was  a  little  work-basket  in  a 
corner,  which  she  found  without  a  light.  There 
was  comfort  even  in  the  touch  of  it.  It  was 
hidden  work,  —  no  one  had  ever  seen  it,  not  even 
Barry  ;  but  into  those  little  garments  she  stitched 
her  teeming  thoughts.  Sore  and  bitter  ones  had 
given  way  many  times  as  she  bent  over  the  pretty 
cambric ;  so,  with  this  charm  in  her  hand,  she 
went  down  the  crabbed  little  stairs  again.  As 
she  laid  her  hand  on  the  latch  of  the  stair  door  to 
push  it  open,  she  heard  voices,  and  looking  through 
the  crack  she  saw  Tartar  and  Barry  standing  on 
the  threshold. 

"  Come  in,"  said  Barry,  preceding  her. 

"  It  is  irregular,"  returned  Tartar,  hesitating. 
"  I  should  n't  come  till  Mrs.  Barry  is  here  to  re 
ceive  me." 

"  Nonsense,"  cried  Barry,  a  little  annoyed. 
"  Country  people,  in  our  position,  do  not  stand  on 
etiquette." 

"  Don't  say  anything  more  like  that,"  said  Tar 
tar,  rather  seriously.  "  Do  you  know,  it  sounds 
bitter." 

But  still  she  did  not  cross  the  sill  that  divided 
the  parlor  from  the  porch,  and  only  looked  cu 
riously  into  the  lighted  little  room. 

"  Overcome  your  scruples',"  exclaimed  Barry, 
taking  her  hand  ;  "  it  is  n't  the  first  time  you  and 
I  have  been  in  this  room  together." 


TARTAR.  121 

"  No,"  she  cried,  with  a  merry  laugh,  following 
him.  "Do  you  remember  the  day  we  brought 
the  duck's  eggs  to  Mrs.  Flanigan,  and  got  her  to 
let  us  make  an  omelet  on  the  cooking-stove  that 
stood  there  ?  And  oh,  what  a  smell  of  soap-suds 
and  cabbage !  The  windows  were  covered  with 
steam,  and  the  room  was  furiously  hot.  I  shall 
never  forget  how  ill  I  felt,  and  how  the  dreadful 
stuff  she  gave  us  to  fry  the  omelet  in  flew  over 
on  the  stove,  and  added  to  the  bouquet." 

"  Yes,"  said  Barry,  laughing.  "  You  got  so 
•white  that  I  was  dreadfully  frightened,  and  took 
you  out." 

"  And  rubbed  snow  in  my  face,  to  revive  me." 

"  No,  by  Jupiter,  that  I  deny  !  Nothing  so  un- 
gallant." 

"  I  remember  the  snow  distinctly." 

"Well,  then,  it  was  Peyton  who  did  it.  It 
sounds  like  Peyton." 

"  Oh,  Peyton  !  "  cried  Tartar,  with  an  almost 
imperceptible  chill  of  manner.  "  Peyton  would  n't 
have  seen  that  I  was  white.  Besides,  he  wasn't 
with  us  that  day.  He  had  gone  back  to  school 
that  morning  ;  I  remember  it  distinctly.  You 
had  two  days'  longer  holiday." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Barry,  with  a  sigh.  "  Those  were 
happy  days,  Tartar.  I  wonder  if  life  will  offer 
us  anything  better." 

"  Than  duck  omelet  and  Mrs.  Flanigan  ?  Oh, 
I  hope  so." 


122  PH&BE. 

"  Ah,  come,"  said  Barry,  with  the  touch  of  sen 
timent  that  one  must  always  expect  when  men 
speak  of  their  boyhood,  "  you  can't  make  me  be 
lieve  you  don't  sometimes  remember  those  times 
Avith  regret." 

"  I  don't  want  to  make  you  believe  anything 
of  the  kind.  Of  course  /regret  them,  already  in 
the  spinster  sere  and  yellow  ;  but  for  you,  in  your 
honeymoon,  as  it  were,  —  oh,  fie  !  " 

Phoebe  did  not  hear  what  answer  Barry  made 
to  this  ;  it  was  rather  low,  and  was  interrupted 
by  Tartar's  sudden  movement  to  investigate  the 
changes  in  the  room. 

"  This  surely  is  new,"  she  said,  —  "  this  funny 
little  window  in  the  corner." 

"  No ;  don't  you  remember  Mrs.  Flanigan  used 
to  keep  her  milk-pans  outside?  We  borrowed 
one  without  permission  once,  on  some  occasion,  to 
tie  on  Major's  tail.  It  got  a  good  deal  damaged, 
and  I  think  the  rupture  between  Mr.  Flanigan 
and  his  master  was  mainly  due  to  the  little  mis 
understanding  which  resulted." 

"  I  remember  !  I  remember  !  "  cried  Tartar, 
with  a  peal  of  laughter.  "  Oh,  Barry,  to  think  of 
your  living  in  Flanigan's  cottage  !  " 

"  Yes,  to  think  of  it,"  said  Barry,  with  a  frown, 
walking  up  and  down  the  very  small  space  that 
there  was  to  walk  up  and  down  in,  in  that  room. 
"  Time's  changes,  Tartar." 

"  Ah,  well,"  said  Tartar,  mockingly,  "  it  might 


TARTAR.  123 

be  worse.  You  might  have  had  Flanigan's  dinner 
as  well  as  Flanigan's  house  to  eat  it  in.  Now  I  'm 
sure  Mrs.  Phoebe  does  n't  give  you  cabbage." 

"  Nor  duck  omelet,"  said  Barry,  stiffly. 
•  "  No,  nor  duck  omelet,  as  I  did.  So,  you  see, 
your  fate  might  have  been  worse.  Ah,  now  I 
like  that  little  fireplace.  Whose  idea  was  it 
putting  those  shelves  above  ?  Honor's,  I  'm  sure. 
Honor  is  such  a  clever  little  thing.  Why,  I  really 
think  I  almost  like  Flanigan's  parlor.  It's  —  the 
drollest  little  place.  Barry,  tell  me  one  thing 
candidly  "  — 

But  Barry's  candor  was  never  put  to  the  test, 
for  outside  the  door  came  a  reproving  voice :  — 

"  Tartar  !  you  here  !  How  doth  it  happen  ? 
Ith  the  Mithreth  of  the  houth  at  home  ?  " 

"  No,  aunt ;  this  is  irregular.  Barry  made  me 
come  in." 

"  Then  I  will  make  you  come  out." 

"Ah,  who  ever  made  Tartar  do  anything?" 
said  Mr.  Crittenden,  advancing  across  the  thresh 
old.  But  Aunt  David  refused  to  follow  him,  say 
ing  she  would  not  enter  the  cottage  till  its  young 
mistress  was  at  home  to  receive  her.  Mr.  Crit 
tenden  gave  a  curious  glance  around,  and  silently 
followed  her  without  entering  further.  Tartar 
pouted  a  little,  and  said  they  must  go,  notwith 
standing  the  protestations  of  Barry,  who  would 
have  detained  her.  And  so  their  voices  died 
away  down  the  road.  Aunt  David  was  tired  with 


124  PHCEEE. 

her  long  walk  through  the  vegetable  gardens  and 
around  the  grounds.  The  quartette  who  had 
started  out  to  look  at  cauliflower  and  beans  went 
slowly  back,  having  seen  some  other  things  per 
haps  as  entertaining. 

Pho3be  pushed  open  the  door,  after  they  had 
gone,  with  her  work  in  her  hands,  and  a  burning 
color  on  her  cheek.  She  sat  down  by  the  lamp, 
and  worked  a  full  hour  before  her  husband's  step 
crossed  the  little  porch. 

"How  long  have  you  been  at  home?"  he  said. 
"  When  I  went  to  find  you,  just  now,  Peyton  said 
he  'd  left  you  here." 

Evidently  he  had  not  been  frightened  about 
her,  which  was  no  doubt  what  she  had  been  hoping 
during  the  hour  she  had  been  waiting  for  him. 
What  woman  is  above  hoping  her  husband  may 
get  frightened  about  her  ?  Desirable  as  confidence 
is,  solicitude  is  more  subtly  flattering.  Phoebe  ex- 
plainea  the  circumstances  of  her  return  in  a  voice 
of  which  the  tremor  was  not  perceptible.  Then 
Barry  threw  himself  into  a  chair  by  the  window, 
and  smoked,  but  did  not  talk.  By  and  by  he 
tossed  his  cigar  away,  and  sat  gazing  out  into  the 
darkness  ;  after  a  while,  he  got  up  and  said  it  was 
bedtime,  and  he  was  tired,  and,  without  further 
amplification,  made  his  way  up  the  narrow  little 
staircase  to  his  room. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

MARROWFAT. 

FOR  two  or  three  Sundays  after  their  arrival  in 
Marrowfat,  Phoebe  found  many  good  reasons  for 
not  going  to  church,  the  principal,  but  least  prom 
inently  mentioned,  being  that  she  had  not  any 
summer  bonnet.  Going  to  church  had  never  been 
a  well-defined  duty  in  her  mind.  She  had  got 
farther  and  farther  from  it  as  she  grew  up.  Log 
ically,  she  could  not  see  why  she  might  not  as 
well  read  a  good  book  at  home,  when  she  had  no 
nice  bonnet  to  go  in.  Since  edification  was  all 
that  she  had  been  instructed  to  look  for,  she  felt 
she  found  it  better  in  a  chapter  or  two  of  the 
"  Saint's  Rest,"  in  old  brown  calf  and  yellow 
pages  with  long  s's,  than  in  the  diluted  platitudes 
of  the  worthy  minister  of  the  Congregational 
meeting-house  at  Maiden.  The  brethren  who 
found  their  way  to  that  remote  village  were  not 
generally  of  high  cultivation  or  keen  intellect. 
The  sanctuary  in  winter  smelled  of  hot  iron,  and 
made  her  head  ache,  and  in  summer  glared  with 
white  paint,  and  produced  the  same  effect.  When 
she  had  her  new  clothes  and  the  weather  was  fine, 
it  was  very  nice  to  go  and  see  how  they  compared 


126  PH(EBE. 

•with  other  people's  ;  when  she  had  not,  it  was  not 
clear  to  her  why  she  might  not  stop  at  home 
without  offense.  This  was  a  great  sorrow  to  her 
mother,  who  was  not  logical.  She  considered  it 
your  duty  to  hear  a  sermon  once  a  week,  whether 
you  had  a  good  bonnet  or  not.  If  it  did  not  do 
you  any  good,  it  was  your  own  fault ;  it  ought  to 
do  you  good,  and  The  Sermon  was  not  to  blame. 
Preaching  she  looked  upon  as  a  sort  of  eighth 
sacrament;  one  might  almost  say  a  unique  sacra 
ment.  Phoebe,  with  a  very  earnest  desire  always 
to  do  right,  but  with  that  unfortunate  turn  for 
logical  correctness  which  she  must  have  inherited 
from  her  father  (since  her  mother  did  not  even 
know  it  when  she  saw  it),  could  not  accept  the 
dogma.  If  all  you  went  to  church  for  was  to  be 
done  good  to,  you  'd  better  stay  at  home  when 
you  found  it  did  not  do  you  any  good  ;  that  is, 
unless  it  amused  you  or  pleased  somebody  else. 

Therefore  it  happened  that  she  had  been  three 
weeks  in  Marrowfat  before  she  went  to  church. 
It  was  a  warm,  lovely  June  day,  and  she  walked 
with  Barry  under  the  shade  of  the  wide  elms,  in  a 
perfectly  satisfactory  white  muslin  dress,  and  a 
coarse  straw  bonnet,  trimmed  with  white  mull. 
At  her  belt  she  wore  a  large  bunch  of  the  dark 
red  roses  that  seemed  to  have  blown  for  her  par 
ticular  adornment.  Barry  had  looked  at  her  with 
complacency  ;  she  knew  she  was  all  right.  They 
were  rather  late;  that  is,  the  bell  had  stopped 


MARROWFAT.  127 

ringing,  and  the  pews  were  all  filled,  and  the  cler 
gyman  was  just  entering  from  the  sacristy,  when 
they  reached  the  door.  It  was  an  old  stone 
church,  with  many  vines  about  it,  greensward, 
and  fine  trees.  It  looked  much  more  agreeable  to 
Phosbe  than  the  bare  and  unadorned  ecclesiastical 
edifices  of  Maiden  and  Brixton,  and  she  thought 
she  should  probably  be  well  enough  pleased  to 
come  often,  if  Barry  wanted  to. 

The  organist  was  playing  a  low  and  unobtrusive 
strain  ;  the  clergyman,  having  just  entered,  was  on 
his  knees,  where,  unfortunately,  the  congregation 
had  not  followed  him.  They  were  all  ready  to 
criticise  the  young  couple  who  now  walked  down 
the  silent  aisle ;  very  far  down,  too,  they  were 
obliged  to  walk.  It  was  the  one  moment  in  the 
week  when  they  would  be  most  conspicuous. 
Barry  felt  it,  and  an  unconciliatory  hauteur 
straightened  his  shoulders.  Phoebe  felt  it,  and  her 
color  went  and  came  in  a  very  pretty  manner. 
They  were  as  handsome  a  pair  as  had  ever  trod 
that  aisle.  Marrowfat  held  its  breath  and  looked 
at  them.  After  all,  it  is  possible  to  be  too  good- 
looking.  This  was  the  first  glimpse  they  had  had 
of  Phoebe,  for  everybody  had  been  hanging  back, 
and  no  one  had  liked  to  be  the  first  to  call.  They 
were  prepared  to  see  some  one  dowdy,  or  flashy, 
or  commonplace.  They  were  prepared  to  be 
deeply  sorry  for  the  family  downfall. 

For    the    whole    story   had   been    current   for 


128  PHCEBE. 

months  in  the  place.  A  journeyman  tailor  in 
Marrowfat  had  married  a  wife  in  Greene  County, 
who  had  a  cousin  who  had  moved  to  Maiden  and 
bought  out  the  keeper  of  the  village  "  store  "  two 
years  before  ;  and  there  was  not  a  detail  of  the 
unfortunate  matter  that  was  not  talked  over  the 
counters  of  every  shop  in  Marrowfat  before  it  was 
a  month  old.  We  never  can  be  sure  how  much 
our  friends  know  or  wfcat  they  are  saying  of  us, 
and  the  Crittendens  could  not  be  blamed  for  hop 
ing  that  distance  and  obscurity  had  hidden  the 
sorrowful  truth  from  their  neighbors.  That  Barry 
had  made  a  rash  and  undesirable  marriage  could 
not  be  concealed,  but  the  whole  truth,  surely,  one 
might  reasonably  have  hoped  need  not  be  pub 
lished. 

But  itjaad  been  published,  illustrated  and  em 
bellished  ;  and  in  the  face  of  it  here  were  Barry 
and  his  wife  walking  down  the  aisle  with  their 
heads  up.  If  Barry  had  looked  shabby,  dethroned, 
undefiant  ;  if  his  wife  had  had  mouse-colored  hair, 
thin  shoulders,  a  dull  skin,  or  a  bad  walk,  this 
story  might  never  have  been  told,  and  virtuous 
Marrowfat  have  added  to  its  virtues  that  of  a  large 
and  liberal  charity.  It  is  easy  to  forgive  acknowl 
edged  defeat ;  it  is  hard  to  forgive  defiant  success. 
Barry  looked  a  greater  swell  than  ever,  and  his 
wife  was  so  much  handsomer  than  anybody  else  in 
Marrowfat  that  it  was  simple  nonsense  to  talk  of 
ignoring  the  past.  If  one  did  not  want  to  be 


MARROWFAT.  129 

walked  over  by  these  young  persons  tliey  must  be 
put  down  ;  self-preservation  joined  hands  with  vir 
tuous  indignation  ;  to  cancel  the  past  would  be  to 
sacrifice  the  future.  Scarce  a  mother  in  Marrow 
fat  but  felt  a  bitter  sense  of  injury  as  she  thought 
of  Barry.  Not  only  had  he  set  the  worst  possible 
example  to  her  sons,  but  he  had  overlooked  the 
charms  of  her  daughters  ;  not  only  had  he  out 
raged  public  opinion,  but  he  had  disappointed  pri 
vate  hopes.  Society  should  hold  him  to  a  strict 
account ;  Marrowfat  was  not  to  be  trifled  with 
when  it  came  to  matters  of  principle. 

It  was  an  old  town,  with  ante-Revolutionary 
traditions  ;  there  was  no  mushroom  crop  allowed 
to  spring  up  about  it.  New  people  were  per 
mitted,  but  only  on  approbation  of  the  old.  It 
was  not  the  thing  to  be  very  rich  in  Marrowfat,  it 
was  only  tolerated  ;  it  was  the  thing  to  be  a  little 
cultivated,  a  little  clever,  very  well  born,  and  very 
loyal  to  Marrowfat.  It  was  not  exactly  provincial; 
it  was  too  near  the  great  city  and  too  much  mixed 
up  witli  it  to  be  that;  but  it  was  very  local,  and  it 
had  its  own  traditions  in  an  unusual  degree.  That 
people  grew  a  little  narrow  and  very  much  inter 
ested  in  the  affairs  of  the  town,  after  living  there 
a  while,  was  not  to  be  wondered  at.  It  is  always 
the  result  of  suburban  life,  and  one  finds  it  diffi 
cult  to  judge,  between  having  one's  nature  green 
like  a  lane,  even  if  narrow,  or  hard  and  broad  like 
a  city  pavement,  out  of  which  all  the  greenness 


130  r  IKE  BE. 

has  been  trampled  and  all  the  narrowness  thrown 
down. 

The  climate  of  the  place  was  dry  and  pure :  it 
was  the  fashion  for  the  city  doctors  to  send  their 
patients  there,  and  many  who  came  to  tough  re 
mained  to  build.  The  scenery  was  lovely  :  you 
looked  down  pretty  streets  and  saw  blue  hills  be 
yond;  the  sidewalks  were  paved  and  the  town 
was  lit  by  gas,  but  the  pavements  led  you  past 
charming  homes  to  bits  of  view  that  reminded  you 
of  Switzerland,  and  the  inoffensive  lamp-posts 
were  hidden  under  great  trees  by  day,  and  by 
night  you  only  thought  how  glad  you  were  to  see 
them.  The  drives  were  endless,  the  roads  good ; 
there  were  livery-stables,  hotels,  skilled  confec 
tioners,  shops  of  all  kinds,  a  library,  a  pretty  little 
theatre,  churches  of  every  shade  of  faith,  schools 
of  every  degree  of  pretension  ;  lectures  in  winter, 
concerts  in  summer,  occasional  plays  all  the  year ; 
two  or  three  local  journals,  the  morning  papers 
from  the  city  at  your  breakfast  table  ;  fast  trains, 
telegraphs,  telephones,  all  the  modern  amenities 
of  life  under  your"  very  hand  ;  and  yet  it  was  the 
country,  and  there  were  peaceful  hills  and  deep 
woods,  and  the  nights  were  as  still  as  Paradise. 
Can  it  be  wondered  at  that,  like  St.  Peter's  at 
Rome,  it  had  an  atmosphere  of  its  own,  and  defied 
the  outer  changes  of  the  temperature  ? 

Marrowfat    certainly    was    a    law   unto    itself. 
Why   certain   people   were    great   people,    in   its 


MARROWFAT.  131 

view,  it  would  be  difficult  to  say.  Why  the  tele 
graphs  and  the  telephones,  and  the  fashionable 
invalids  from  the  city,  and  the  rich  people  who 
bought  and  built  in  its  neighborhood,  did  not 
change  its  standards  of  value  one  can  only  guess. 
But  it  had  a  stout  moral  sentiment  of  its  own  ;  it 
had  resisted  innovations  and  done  what  seemed  it 
good  for  a  long  while ;  and  when  you  have  made 
a  good  moral  sentiment  the  fashion,  or  the  fact  by 
long  use,  you  have  done  a  good  thing.  Marrow 
fat  never  tolerated  married  flirtations,  looked 
askance  on  extremes  in  dress  or  entertainment, 
dealt  severely  with  the  faults  of  youth.  All  these 
things  existed  more  or  less  within  its  borders,  of 
course,  but  they  were  evil  doings  and  not  approved 
doings. 

In  a  certain  sense,  Marrowfat  was  the  most 
charitable  town  in  the  world ;  in  another  the  most 
uncharitable.  If  you  were  to  have  any  misfortune 
befall  you,  Marrowfat  was  the  place  to  go  to  have 
it  in  :  if  you  lost  your  money,  if  you  broke  your 
back,  if  your  children  died,  if  your  house  burned 
down,  Marrowfat  swathed  you  in  flowers,  bathed 
you  in  sympathy,  took  you  out  to  drive,  came  and 
read  to  you,  if  need  were  took  up  subscriptions 
for  you.  But  if  you  did  anything  disgraceful  or 
discreditable,  it  is  safe  to  say  you  would  better 
have  done  it  in  any  other  place. 

It  may  be  said  that  Barry,  having  dwelt  there 
all  his  life,  should  have  known  better  than  to  have 


132  PIKEEE. 

come  back  there  to  live,  with  such  a  stain  upon 
him.  But  in  truth  we  are  not  apt  to  analyze  the 
atmosphere  we  breathe  ;  he  had  not  realized  the 
severity  of  it  while  he  was  in  good  social  health. 
He  had  been  a  great  favorite,  an  eminently 
important  person,  man  and  boy  ;  it  had  always 
seemed  to  him  that  the  sun  shone  in  Marrowfat 
all  the  year  round,  and  almost  all  the  twenty-four 
hours  in  the  day.  The  Crittendens  had  been  as 
important  people  as  there  were  in  Marrowfat.  If 
there  was  any  blue  blood  in  the  place  it  certainly 
flowed  in  their  veins.  Mr.  Crittenden  was  ap 
proved  for  being  a  son  of  the  soil,  and  for  having 
done  credit  to  the  soil  in  his  subsequent  career. 
Mrs.  Crittenden  was  approved  for  her  many  good 
qualities,  for  her  talents,  and  for  her  ready  adapta 
tion  of  herself  to  the  place.  The  children  were 
approved  for  their  good  looks  and  good  manners. 
The  family  were  in  fact  quite  model  citizens. 
When  their  style  of  living  improved  with  improv 
ing  fortune,  their  neighbors  were  tolerant  of 
the  change ;  when  Barry  put  on  airs,  they  were 
rather  proud  of  him  ;  when  Honor  refused  to 
speak  to  the  milliner's  daughter  at  the  rink,  they 
secretly  sustained  her.  It  seemed  impossible  for 
them  to  do  amiss.  Mrs.  Crittenden  was  indispen 
sable  to  all  the  clubs,  book,  musical,  charitable  ; 
nothing  could  be  done  without  her.  Her  entertain 
ments  were  assured  successes  ;  her  ways  of  man 
aging  were  spoken  of  with  respect ;  her  methods 


MARROWFAT.  133 

with  her  children,  with  her  vegetables,  with  the 
languages,  were  equally  superior.  Her  son  was 
the  best  match  in  Marrowfat,  her  daughters  were 
pretty,  her  house  was  always  open  in  easy  hospi 
tality.  It  was  no  wonder  she  was  an  important 
person. 

But  now  all  \this  was  to  be  changed.  That 
amid  the  waving  field  of  general  approbation 
there  must  have  been  some  secret  seeds  of  envy, 
the  harvest  proved.  Aristides  must  pay  for'  his 
title;  one  cannot  be  just  and  be  called  just  and 
have  only  glory  always  with  impunity.  It  was 
amazing,  the  rapidity  with  which  the  opinion 
spread  that  Mrs.  Crittenden  was  an  overrated  per 
son,  that  she  had  made  many  mistakes  in  judg 
ment,  that  she  had  brought  up  her  children  badly, 
that  the  girls  were  assuming,  that  no  words  could 
say  what  Barry  was  or  what  he  would  become. 
It  was  plain,  also,  from  the  retrenchments  they 
were  making,  that  they  had  been  living  beyond 
their  means.  It  was  even  rumored  they  were 
heavily  in  debt ;  trades  -  people  were  vaguely 
warned  not  to  let  their  accounts  run  on  too  long. 
It  was  evident  that  theirs  was  no  longer  a  house 
whence  much  amusement  would  emanate.  Then 
Virtue  stepped  in  and  said,  "  Is  it  a  house  where 
one  ought  to  go  ?  Give  me  your  hand  and  come 
out  with  distinction,  and  give  no  countenance  to 
the  doings  of  this  young  libertine." 

When  one  can  make  a  show  of  virtue,  and  vent 


134  PHCEBE. 

a  long-cherished  spite,  and  lose  not  even  a  whist- 
party  by  it,  human  nature  cannot  be  expected  to 
resist.  It  was  a  most  fatal  addition  of  fuel  to 
this  fire  when  Barry  straightened  his  shoulders 
so  defiantly  as  he  went  down  the  aisle,  on  the  oc 
casion  of  his  first  appearance  with  his  wife.  And 
Phrebe's  two  weeks'  labor  over  that  pretty  mus 
lin, —  what  a  hundred  pities  that  it  hung  so  well ; 
that  her  ribbons  brought  out  the  color  in  her 
beautiful  skin  to  such  perfection  ;  that  the  roses  at 
her  belt  were  in  such  harmony  with  the  ribbons, 
the  muslin,  and  the  skin  !  She  became  a  danger 
to  society,  a  flaming  ship  set  loose  amid  peaceful 
vessels  moored  at  anchor.  A  dreary  beacon,  a 
ship  aground,  beating  and  pounding  on  the  bar,  to 
warn  people  where  destruction  lay,  —  this  was 
what  she  was  to  have  been,  in  the  anticipations  of 
Marrowfat.  Poor  Phcebe  !  she  little  knew  how 
dangerous  to  morals  she  was,  as  she  turned  over 
the  leaves  of  the  strange  Prayer-Book  Lucy 
handed  her.  Her  heart  thumped  audibly  against 
her  Jacqueminot  roses.  She  felt  all  the  family 
despised  her  because  she  could  not  find  her  places ; 
she  hoped  Barry  would  not  look  till  she  got  right 
about  the  morning  Psalms. 

She  had  never  seen  people  kneel  down  publicly 
before.  The  very  faithful  in  Brixton  used  to  tip 
their  heads  forward  a  little  when  the  minister 
made  a  prayer.  The  prayers  at  Brixton  were 
"  oblique  sermons,"  shied  at  heaven  at  an  angle 


MARROWFAT.  135 

that  made  them  equally  available  for  instruction 
and  edification  to  the  hearers  below :  perhaps  that 
was  the  reason  the  people  tipped  their  heads  a 
little  forward  when  the  minister  shut  his  eyes  and 
lifted  his  eyebrows  and  began  what  was  called  his 
prayer ;  they  did  not  want  to  be  hit.  Here  every 
thing  was  new  and  strange.  It  would  be  saying 
too  much  for  Phoebe's  intelligence  and  piety  to 
affirm  that  she  was  impressed  by  a  ritual  which 
was  presented  to  her  for  the  first  time,  when  there 
was  so  much  to  agitate  her  in  her  surroundings. 
The  liturgy  was  pretty  much  lost  upon  her  that 
morning,  but  when  the  sermon  began,  she  settled 
herself  to  hear  it  with  the  feeling  that  now  she 
was  en  pays  de  connaissance ;  the  firstly  and  sec 
ondly  were  like  old  friends  to  her  and  quite  re 
stored  her  composure.  The  text  was,  "  And  let 
all  the  angels  of  God  worship  Him." 

As  a  sermon,  it  was  nothing  very  remarkable ; 
nothing  beyond  a  plain  and  well-defined  instruc 
tion  upon  the  subject  of  worship.  The  preacher 
was  not  an  orator,  but  he  was  an  excellent  thinker, 
and  never  found  any  difficulty  in  getting  you  to 
understand  his  thoughts.  This  sort  of  teaching 
suited  the  young  stranger  ;  she  listened  eagerly. 
It  was  a  revelation  to  her  to  be  told  that  she 
did  not  go  to  church  for  any  good  it  would  do 
her,  nor  even  to  set  an  example  ;  but  to  pay  to 
Almighty  God  an  act  of  service,  a  homage  as  un 
connected  with  these  results  as  the  sweeping  of  a 


136  PIKE  BE. 

room  would  be  with  the  making  of  a  batch  of  bread. 
Everything  was  to  be  done  to  his  glory,  "as  for 
God's  laws;"  but  this  was  especially  a  thing  to 
be  done  for  that  and  that  alone.  It  would  bring 
a  blessing,,  it  would  do  you  good,  as  all  duty  done 
honestly  would  do  ;  but  that  was  a  secondary  ef 
fect,  something  given  by  the  grace  of  God,  not  the 
thing  to  be  put  forward  as  an  object.'  If  you 
found,  after  years  of  church-going,  that  you  were 
not  any  sweeter-tempered  for  it,  you  must  not 
be  any  more  discouraged  than  if  you  had  been 
learning  Greek  and  did  not  find  yourself  any 
farther  ahead  in  mathematics  because  of  it.  Very 
likely  you  would  be  able  to  get  ahead  much 
farther  for  it  because  of  the  mental  discipline, 
but  you  would  not  expect  it  as  a  direct  result,  or 
do  it  with  that  as  a  direct  object.  Greek  is  Greek, 
mathematics  are  mathematics  ;  worship  is  worship, 
and  not  charity  nor  self-improvement.  Your  duty 
to  God  as  God  is  a  distinct  matter  from  your  duty 
to  your  neighbor  and  your  duty  to  yourself. 

The  duty  of  public  worship  the  preacher  set 
forth  plainly  as  he  saw  it,  bringing  up  the  exam 
ple  of  the  older  dispensation,  of  our  Blessed  Lord, 
of  the  Christian  church  from  its  earliest  breath, 
of  the  heavenly  pattern,  where  before  the  throne 
unendingly 

"  Faint  mists  of  seraphs  rise  and  fall." 

And  he  showed  them,  as  he  saw  it  (one  cannot  do 
any  more,  and  I  suppose  ought  not  to  do  any  less), 


MARROWFAT.  137 

that  the  great  act  of  Christian  worship  is  paid  in 
the  offering  of  the  Holy  Eucharist.  He  did  not 
pretend  to  understand  the  mysterious  strength  of 
sacrificial  service  ;  in  a  certain  sense,  that  is  an 
intellectual  sense,  nobody  had  ever  understood  it, 
from  Cain  up  to  Kant.  But,  accepting  faith  as 
a  faculty  distinct  from  reason,  "  believing  that 
he  might  understand,  not  understanding  that  he 
might  believe,"  he  could  see  the  meaning  of  the 
chain  of  sacrifice,  from  the  first  sin  in  Eden  to 
the  Great  Oblation  on  Calvary  ;  coming  on  from 
thence  to  the  last  sin  that  shall  offend  the  "  most 
worthy  Judge  eternal,"  extends  the  Christian  sac 
rifice  "  shown  forth  till  He  come,"  encircling  the 
ages  in  its  mystic  round.  From  Eden  to  Calvary, 
from  Calvary  to  Eden ;  the  signet  that  clasps  the 
chain  the  Great  White  Throne  set  up  in  the  new 
heavens  and  the  new  earth. 

The  vacant  plea  of  a  memorial,  a  picture  in 
stead  of  a  presence,  a  talk  about  a  thing  instead  of 
the  thing  itself,  had  never  satisfied  Phoebe.  She 
was  either  too  spiritual  or  not  spiritual  enough  to 
be  contented  with  Protestant  teaching  on  the  sub 
ject  of  the  sacraments.  It  was  an  unexpected 
comfort  to  her  to  find  there  was  something  she 
could  take  hold  of  in  the  very  misty  sea  of  Chris 
tian,  doctrine  on  which  she  had  been  drifting. 

"  If  it  means  anything  it  must  mean  that,"  she 
said,  almost  aloud.  She  had  spent  so  much  of  her 
life  in  listening  to  preachers  engaged  in  rubbing 


138  PH(EBE. 

out  the  meaning  of  Holy  Writ,  it  was  quite  a 
surprise  to  see  one  stand  up  and  write  it  out  in 
strong  lines  afresh,  and  teach  in  effect  if  words 
mean  anything  they  mean  what  they  express. 
The  belief  in  the  supernatural  had  been  so  faintly 
emphasized,  so  detached  from  all  contact  with  the 
natural,  in  the  teaching  to  which  she  was  used, 
that  logically  she  rejected  it,  being,  as  has  been 
said,  too  spiritual  or  not  spiritual  enough  to  abide 
in  such  an  impalpable  kingdom.  To  such  a  mind 
it  was  a  great  deal  easier  to  follow  the  utmost 
length  of  sacramental  doctrine  than  to  accept  the 
volatilized  essence  of  a  word  as  the  point  of  un 
ion  between  God  and  man.  If  you  believe  in  the 
supernatural  at  all,  it  is  a  great  deal  better  to  be 
lieve  in  it  as  the  Word  of  God  and  the  Church 
Catholic  teach  it  than  as  you  in  your  ethereal 
daintiness  might  wish  that  it  had  been  arranged. 
"  Except  a  man  be  born  of  water  and  the  Holy 
Spirit,"  "  Except  ye  eat  the  flesh  of  the  Son  of 
Man,  "  "  Whosesoever  sins  ye  retain,  they  are  re 
tained,  "  are  as  easy  to  accept  as  "  Ye  are  the 
temples  of  the  Holy  Ghost,"  "  This  kind  goeth 
not  out  but  by  prayer  and  fasting,"  "  Whatsoever 
ye  shall  ask  the  Father  in  My  name  He  will  grant 
you."  Why  reject  what  the  Christian  world  for 
fifteen  hundred  years  agreed  to  believe  as  the  su 
pernatural  truth,  while  you  accept  a  more  subli 
mated  portion  of  the  same  faith  on  the  same 
terms?  As  against  the  scientists  and  hard  deal- 


MARROWFAT.  139 

ers  in  facts  you  can  have  little  or  nothing  to  say ; 
you  are  not  talking  in  the  same  language ;  but  if 
you  have  the  happiness  to  believe  anything  that 
God  has  revealed,  why  can't  you  believe  it  all, 
and  do  Him  the  honor  of  submitting  yourself  to 
Him  unquestioningly  ? 

These  thoughts  gave  Phoebe  a  rapid  sense  of 
satisfaction.  She  assimilated  difficult  truths  with 
the  force  of  a  young  and  healthy  spirit. 

When  she  went  out  of  the  church  by  Barry's 
side,  her  heart  no  longer  thumped  against  the  Jac 
queminot  roses.  She  was  happily  so  engrossed 
with  her  new  and  satisfactory  basis  of  faith  that 
she  did  not  see  that  nobody  came  forward  to  speak 
to  them,  and  that  Barry  strode  out  flushed  and  an 
gry-looking  ;  for  two  or  three  people  had  looked 
away  when  he  caught  their  eyes,  two  or  three 
more  he  had  seen  whispering  and  looking  at  her, 
and  for  once  in  their  lives  Honor  and  Lucy  were 
being  permitted  to  walk  home  alone. 

These  and  other  little  occurrences  of  the  next 
few  days  gave  definite  ground  to  Mrs.  Crittenden 
for  believing  that  the  current  was  setting  against 
them  very  strongly.  It  is  hard  to  bear  injustice 
and  insult  for  one's  self,  but  I  fancy  no  one  will 
deny  it  is  harder  to  bear  them  for  one's  children. 
Mrs.  Crittenden  could,  perhaps,  have  nerved  her 
self  to  see  Barry  punished  for  his  wrong-doing, 
though  it  would  have  been  a  bitter  sight.  But 
he  had  sinned.  He  had  made  his  bed,  and  he 


140  PUCE  BE. 

must  lie  in  it.  He  was  working  out  his  punish 
ment,  and  it  might  be  the  best  thing  for  him  that 
it  was  sharp.  It  was  a  different  thing  when  it 
came  to  seeing  Lucy  and  Honor  neglected  and  ta 
booed. 

Who  does  not  know  what  a  daughter's  triumphs 
are  to  a  mother?  One's  own  triumphs  in  youth 
are  half  lost  by  the  greedy  inexperience  that  does 
noj  know  what  a  triumph  is  and  when  to  be  satis 
fied,  and  by  agitation  of  nerves  and  uncertainty  of 
judgment ;  it  is  generally  more  hazy  than  brill 
iant.  But  with  matured  judgment,  with  calmed 
nerves,  with  an  egotistic  pleasure  refined  from  self 
ishness,  with  romance  stimulated  by  the  prose  of 
one's  own  fate,  with  base  calculation  mixed  with 
purest  sentiment,  a  woman  watches  the  career  of 
her  young  daughter  with  a  satisfaction  that  the 
daughter  misses.  She  feels  no  self-reproach  at  her 
pleasure,  no  uncertainty  as  to  the  result,  for  such 
love  is  always  full  of  hope :  it  is  the  purest  and 
most  unselfish  romance  of  which  a  woman's  heart 
is  capable.  But  turn  the  chances,  and  give  her, 
for  success,  failure.  What  compares  with  that  for 
sharp  distress  ?  The  calmness  of  nerves  is  gone, 
the  mature  judgment  has  quite  failed  her,  the  in 
justice  is  a  great  deal  more  stinging  than  if  she 
had  the  inner  consciousness  of  some  desert,  which 
people  always  have  when  the  injustice  is  personal. 
The  better  woman  she  is  the  more  she  suffers  ;  the 
tenderer  her  heart,  the  livelier  her  imagination, 


MARROWFAT.  141 

the  more  unreasonable  her  sufferings.  "  These 
sheep,  what  have  they  done  ?  "  What  she  could 
have  borne  for  herself  with  heroism,  she  fails  to 
bear  for  them  with  even  passable  dignity  or  pa 
tience. 


CHAPTER  X. 
HONOR'S  WOUNDS. 

"MAMMA,"  said  Honor,  coming  in  from  the 
post-office  one  morning  in  late  June,  with  her 
hands  full  of  letters  and  her  cheeks  flushed  and 
an  angry  light  in  her  eyes,  "  I  have  something  to 
tell  you." 

Mrs.  Crittenden  had  grown  to  dread  what  Honor 
might  have  to  tell  her ;  she  laid  down  her  work, 
and  said  "  Well  ?"  in  a  patient  voice. 

Lucy,  who  had  been  reading  aloud,  put  her  book 
on  her  lap,  and  looked  up  too.  They  were  sitting 
on  the  piazza,  which  was  covered  with  a  tangle 
of  roses  and  honeysuckle,  all  in  bloom.  Honor 
looked  charmingly  pretty  in  her  simple  muslin 
dress  and  round  hat.  She  threw  down  the  letters, 
of  which  there  were  quite  a  number,  as  if  they 
were  of  very  little  interest,  and,  sitting  on  the  arm 
of  a  piazza  chair,  began  pulling  off  her  gloves. 

"  I  don't  think  you  will  believe  me  when  I  tell 
you  :  the  Meadow  Club  had  their  first  meeting 
yesterday." 

"  Impossible  !  "  said  Lucy,  quickly.  "Why,  we 
got  up  the  Meadow  Club.  I  was  thinking  only 


HONOR'S   WOUNDS.  143 

this  morning  it  was  time  we  started  it  again  for 
the  season.  It 's  the  fourth  year  now,  you  know, 
and  we  always  have  to  give  it  a  start  to  begin  ; 
but  this  year  I  really  had  n't  thought  about  it  till 
to-day." 

"  Well,  you  're  saved  the  trouble,  then.  It  's 
started,  and  we  are  left  out." 

"  How  absurd,  Honor !  It  does  n't  seem  self-re 
specting,  it  does  n't  seem  quite  nice,  to  think  such 
things  possible,"  said  her  sister,  reproachfully. 

"  It 's  less  nice  to  have  them  happen,"  retorted 
Honor,  sharply,  stretching  out  her  gloves  to  their 
greatest  length  in  her  two  hands,  and  holding 
them  across  her  knee. 

"  What  is  n't  nice  ?  Pray  let  us  have  your 
woe,"  said  Mrs.  Crittenden,  taking  up  her  work 
again,  and  trying  to  seem  unmoved.  ^ 

"  It  is  n't  nice,"  cried  Honor,  with  passionate 
tears  springing  to  her  eyes,  "  to  be  left  out  of 
everything,  to  be  snubbed  by  everybody!  This 
morning,  when  I  came  out  of  the  post-office,  the 
Merryhews'  carriage  stood  there,  and  I  went  across 
the  sidewalk  to  speak  to  Fanny  and  Sue,  who  were 
waiting  in  it.  They  seemed  a  little  embarrassed, 
—  I  did  n't  know  why ;  but  while  we  talked  Fred 
Warden  came  up  and  joined  us,  and  in  a  moment 
he  said  to  me,  '  Why  were  n't  you  at  the  Meadow 
Club  yesterday  ?  There  was  such  a  large  meet 
ing,  —  everybody  was  there.  I  looked  around  for 
you.'  At  that  Sue  and  Fanny  colored  up,  and  I 


144  PH(EBE. 

saw  Fanny  give  him  a  look,  and  he  got  so  con 
fused.  Then  I  said  I  did  n't  know  there  had  been 
a  meeting,  and  Fanny  said,  Oh,  it  was  quite  in 
formal  ;  they  did  n't  mean  to  have  the  Club  very 
large  this  year,  —  just  among  themselves.  This 
only  seemed  to  make  it  "worse,  and  Sue  tried  to 
say  something,  in  her  stupid  way  ;  and  I  was  so 
blind  with  agitation  that  I  could  n't  look  at  any  of 
them.  Then  Fred  went  blundering  on,  and  began 
to  ask  if  they  were  going  to  the  Burleighs'  to 
night,  who  it  seems  are  to  have  a  party,  and  what 
time  they  were  going,  and  how  many  would  be 
there.  Everybody  was  going,  they  said,  so  glad 
of  something  else  to  talk  about ;  and  then  I  got 
away  before  they  could  ask  me  if  we  were  going. 
I  think  Fred  wanted  to  walk  home  with  me,  but  I 
would  n't  look  at  him,  I  would  n't  let  him  come 
near  me.  I  hate  him.  I  hate  them  all.  I  want 
to  go  away  from  this  horrid  place.  I  won't,  I 
won't  stay  here  any  longer !  Marnma,  what  do 
they  mean  by  treating  us  so  ?  How  dare  they  do 
it  ?  How  dare  they  do  it  ?  " 

And  poor  little  Honor  flung  herself  down  on 
the  piazza  floor  beside  her  mother,  and,  burying 
her  face  in  her  lap,  sobbed  passionately. 

"  You  are  tired  with  your  hot  walk,"  said  her 
mother,  disengaging  her  hat  with  hands  that  trem 
bled,  and  smoothing  back  her  hair.  "It  is  too  hot 
for  you  to  go  for  the  letters  in  the  morning  now. 
I  will  send  one  of  the  women." 


HONOR'S   WOUNDS.  145 

"I  will  never  go  again,"  sobbed  Honor.  "I 
won't  ever  go  out  any  more.  I  never  want  to  see 
a  soul  in  Marrowfat  as  long  as  I  live.  I  want  to 
go  away.  Oh,  mamma,  mamma,  take  us  away  ! 
What  is  the  use  of  staying  here  to  be  snubbed  — 
and  snubbed  —  like  that  ?  " 

"  Oh,  my  baby,  that 's  a  trifle,"  said  her  mother, 
bending  over  her.  "  Why  do  you  mind  a  thing 
like  that?" 

"  It  is  n't  a  trifle,"  cried  Honor,  "  to  be  left  out 
of  a  club  that  you  got  up  yourself,  and  not  to  be 
invited  to  a  general  party  at  a  house  where  you  've 
visited  all  your  life  !  Lucy  may  n't  mind ;  she  's 
above  such  tilings,  perhaps  ;  but  I  do  mind,  and 
they  're  not  trifles  to  we." 

Lucy  looked  as  if  she  did  mind,  though ;  her 
questioning  eyes  had  been  on  her  mother's  ever 
since  Honor  began  her  story,  and  her  sensitive 
face  showed  all  the  pain  she  felt. 

"  I  don't  understand  what  it  means,"  she  said, 
falteringly. 

"  Ah,"  said  her  mother,  still  smoothing  down 
Honor's  hair,  "  these  are  things  that  are  happen 
ing  every  day  in  the  world.  We  have  been  fortu 
nate  never  to  have  had  them  come  to  us  before. 
Just  do  not  think  anything  more  about  it.  It 
seems,  as  Lucy  says,  not  self-respecting  to  care  at 
all  for  slights  like  these." 

"  But  I  can't  help  caring.  I  can't  think  about 
anything  else.  I  shall  always  be  wondering  what 


10 


146  PH(EBE. 

is  coming  next.  It  is  n't  as  if  it  were  a  big  place, 
where  you  could  get  away  from  people  ;  but  it  is 
all  or  none  here.  You  run  up  against  people  who 
have  been  rude  to  you  all  the  time.  Everybody 
knows  whether  you  're  invited  or  not,  and  every 
body  watches  you.  Mamma,  mamma,  I  wish  you  'd 
go  away." 

"  Well,  I  am  sure  I  gladly  would,"  said  her 
mother,  putting  the  girl's  arms  off  her  lap,  and 
rising  to  get  the  letters.  "  I  am  sure  I  gladly 
would,  to  please  you,  if  we  had  the  money.  We 
have  n't  the  money,  and  so  we  must  stay  and  make 
the  best  of  it." 

She  took  out  her  own  letters  from  the  package 
and  went  away  to  read  them,  feeling  she  could  not 
bear  a  word  more  now. 

She  had  a  good  deal  of  the  same  sort  to  bear  as 
the  summer  went  on.  The  gayety  was  all  in  the 
hands  of  a  young  set,  who  seemed  to  have  no  com 
passion  and  no  principle.  Lucy  and  Honor  were 
as  much  excluded  as  if  they  were  not  living  in  the 
place.  The  intimacies  of  years  were  undermined ; 
not  of  course  in  a  moment,  but  one  or  two  slights 
brought  coldnesses  and  misunderstandings,  and 
Honor  was  on  the  lookout  for  neglects.  Tartar 
was  not  there  to  fight  the  battle  for  them.  She 
was  of  too  much  social  importance  and  had  too 
much  force  to  have  been  ignored.  But  beyond 
that  little  visit  in  the  last  of  May  they  saw  no 
more  of  her  all  summer.  Lucy  was  easily  crushed, 


HONOR'S   WOUNDS.  147 

Honor  was  too  young  and  hot-headed 'to  make  any 
effectual  resistance,  and  Mrs.  Crittenden  could 
only  submit  to  what  had  befallen  her. 

As  for  Barry,  no  one  knew  what  he  felt ;  with 
all  his  genial  ways,  he  was  deeply  reserved.  He 
worked  early  and  late  at  the  office,  however,  and 
made  his  fatigue  an  excuse  for  the  rather  uncon- 
vivial  character  of  his  conduct  at  home.  Phosbe 
probably  did  not  know  what  was  going  on  outside 
the  fence  that  bounded  the  Crittenden  domain  : 
she  could  not  be  expected  to  guess  that  it  was 
something  new  that  so  few  carriages  came  past 
her  humble  door,  and  strange  that  so  few  people 
took  the  opportunity  of  making  her  acquaintance. 
Barry  had  agreed  with  her  that  it  was  best  to  dine 
at  home  on  most  days,  and  she  had  a  good  deal  to 
do  in  making  the  dinners  acceptable  to  his  rather 
fastidious  taste.  She  had  a  great  deal  of  sewing 
to  do,  besides,  and  little  as  the  house  was  it  was 
not  a  trifle  to  keep  it  in  good  order,  with  such  a  stu 
pid  maid  as  Mary  Ann,  who  could  not  even  set  a 
chair  back  as  she  was  told.  That  Barry  was  not 
morose,  that  Tartar  did  not  come  again,  that  her 
sisters-in-law  did  not  pay  her  too  many  visits,  that 
her  mother-in-law  let  her  alone  a  good  deal,  and 
that  she  had  to  see  her  father-in-law  only  once  or 
twice  a  week  at  dinner,  were  so  many  things  to 
be  thankful  for,  and,  added  to  her  constant  occupa 
tion,  good  health,  and  her  interest  in  thinking  over 
the  new  creed  presented  to  her,  made  her,  perhaps, 


148  PH(EBE. 

the  most  contented  member  of  the  family  group. 
She  eagerly  imbibed  the  habits  and  manners  of 
those  who  surrounded  her,  and  took  good  care  to 
copy  the  dress  of  her  sisters  with  as  much  accu 
racy  as  was  possible  with  her  purse.  She  went  to 
church  quite  regularly,  whether  Barry  went  or  not, 
looking  dangerously  handsome,  but  not  at  all  con 
scious  of  it,  and  much  more  interested  in  finding 
the  places  in  her  new  Prayer-Book  and  in  digesting 
the  very  strong  teaching  of  her  new  faith.  Once 
or  twice  some  friend  of  Barry's  had  walked  home 
with  her  when  she  was  alone  ;  but  these  friends 
found  so  little  coquetry  combined  with  her  beauty 
that  they  were  not  encouraged  to  try  it  again. 
They,  however,  did  not  cease  to  extol  her  attrac 
tions  before  their  families.  Discussions  about  her 
became,  in  fact,  almost  as  much  a  part  of  the  Mar 
rowfat  Sunday  dinner  as  the  roast-beef  itself.  The 
rest  of  the  week  was  comparatively  peaceful,  as 
she  was  rarely  seen  save  on  Sundays.  The  more 
the  fathers  and  husbands  and  brothers  praised  her, 
the  more  the  mothers  and  wives  and  sisters  con 
demned  her. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A  DAY  IN   TOWN. 

THE  summer,  as  to  weather,  proved  very  hot, 
and  no  rain  fell  for  many  weeks.  The  vines  dried 
up  around  the  piazzas  of  the  big  house  and  the 
porch  of  the  little  one.  The  lawn  grew  crisp  and 
brown,  and  dust  flew  up  in  one's  face  as  one  walked 
over  it.  The  days  were  sultry  and  the  nights  op 
pressive.  The  bread-winners  came  home  fagged 
from  the  city,  and  the  eaters  of  bread  at  home  re 
ceived  them  with  spiritless  languor.  Honor  and 
Lucy  missed  their  pony-phaeton  and  pony  more 
than  ever  when  after  sunset  the  carriages  began 
to  appear,  to  catch  the  faint  breezes  on  the  road. 
Mrs.  Crittenden  looked  at  her  pitiful  garden,  and 
thought  almost  bitterly  of  the  faithful  old  Michael 
who  had  been  mowed  down  by  the  scythe  of  re 
trenchment,  now  fighting  the  drought  on  the  prem 
ises  of  a  prosperous  neighbor.  Mr.  Crittenden 
was  more  doggedly  economical  than  ever,  and  more 
unreasonably  apprehensive  that  they  were  going 
to  total  ruin.  Small  things  and  great  seemed  com 
bined  to  make  the  summer  intolerable.  But  the 
drought  alone  was  fearful.  One  got  a  feeling  at 


150  PH(EBE. 

last  that  if  it  would  only  rain  one  would  never 
complain  about  anything  else. 

At  last  it  did  rain,  lightly  to  be  sure,  in  the 
night.  The  air  was  a  little  cooled  and  the  dust 
laid  and  the  sun  faintly  shaded  by  clouds  when 
people  got  up  in  the  morning.  They  had  so  long 
been  doing  nothing  that  the  change  inspired  them 
with  plans.  Those  who  had  carriages  ordered 
them  and  went  about  to  make  visits  and  give  in 
vitations  and  do  errands  ;  and  the  rest  of  the  popu 
lation  went  to  town  to  do  the  shopping  that  had 
been  so  long  neglected. 

Among  these  latter  was  Phrebe,  who  had  only 
been  once  or  twice  before,  and  to  whom  it  was  a 
great  event.  The  day  proved  a  very  delightful 
one  to  her.  They  had  gone  in  an  early  train,  and 
Barry  had  detailed  a  clerk  from  the  office  to  show 
her  the  way  about  the  shops ;  she  had  made  some 
unequaled  bargains,  and  had  invested  her  small 
capital  most  successfully.  Then  Barry  had  met 
her  at  a  restaurant,  and  they  had  taken  luncheon 
together.  He  had  expanded,  once  out  of  the 
smothering  moral  atmosphere  of  Marrowfat,  and 
the  excursion  had  been  really  a  little  honeymoon. 
The  luncheon  was  the  work  of  a  much  more  ad 
vanced  artist  than  Mary  Ann,  and  it  was  delight 
ful  to  the  housekeeping  soul  of  Phoabe  to  have 
known  nothing  of  its  previous  history,  and  to  have 
no  responsibility  about  the  disposition  of  its  re 
mains.  They  sat  by  a  window,  where  the  air 


A  DAY  IN  TOWN.  151 

came  in  very  pleasantly  through  tall  coleus  and 
draceenas  and  blossoming  plants,  which  had  not 
been  permitted  to  feel  the  drought  that  had  with 
ered  the  greenery  at  home.  The  people  about 
them  were  all  strangers  ;  the  little  tables  were 
charmingly  neat  and  well  served  ;  the  waiters'  ob 
sequiousnesses  were  as  good  as  a  play  to  the  inno 
cent  Phoebe. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  have  in  mind,  Phoebe," 
said  Barry.  "  Another  year  we  '11  cut  Marrowfat, 
and  come  to  town  and  be  free.  We  '11  take  a  little 
flat  somewhere,  '  up  in  the  sky,  up  in  the  sky,'  and 
get  out  of  the  way  of  people  and  do  as  we  dern 
please.  When  we  want  to  be  amused  we  '11  go  to 
the  theatre,  and  when  we  want  to  be  convivial 
we  '11  come  here  and  get  our  dinner.  It 's  only  a 
question  of  finance.  Save  your  pennies  up  for 
that,  my  dear." 

Phoebe  did  not  answer,  but  he  saw  by  the  shin 
ing  of  her  eyes  that  she  was  thrilled  with  pleasure 
at  the  prospect.  They  went  to  look  at  some  pic 
tures  and  into  one  or  two  shops  that  were  shows 
of  magnificent  unattainableness,  and  all  the  time 
Barry  talked  of  the  flat,  and  of  the  happiness  of 
getting  away  from  people  and  being  where  nobody 
would  know  them.  Phoebe  told  him  how  much 
she  thought  they  would  have  to  pay  for  a  servant, 
and  exactly  what  per  diem  would  be  needed  for 
the  table.  She  asked  questions  about  gas,  and  he 
promised  to  inform  himself.  Rent  was  the  great 


152  PIKEBE. 

item,  and  the  next  day,  he  said,  he  would  go  to 
some  agents  and  find  out.  It  seemed  rather  early 
to  canvass  the  matter,  as  they  could  not  possibly 
leave  Marrowfat  till  the  following  spring,'  unless 
the  sky  rained  briefs  and  the  flood  of  success  soft 
ened  the  father's  heart.  But  the  thought  gave  a 
motive  and  a  hope,  and  the  two  young  people 
walked  the  hot  pavements  with  more  buoyant 
tread  because  of  it. 

They  went  back  to  Marrowfat  in  the  afternoon 
train,  in  which  all  the  business  men  and  shop 
ping  women  went  back.  With  the  sight  of  the 
first  familiar  face  came  a  shade  over  Barry's.  He 
bowed  stiffly  and  carried  Phoebe's  parcels  with  a 
less  degag&  air.  On  the  ferry-boat,  he  took  her 
outside  among  the  carmen  and  the  nursery-maids, 
hoping  to  escape  contact  with  his  townsmen.  But 
once  on  the  train,  they  were  surrounded  by  them. 
Phoebe's  inward  blessedness  added  to  her  ordinary 
beauty.  She  was  not  tired  nor  hot,  as  the  other 
shopping  women  were.  Their  presence  did  not 
annoy  her,  because  she  did  not  know  they  were 
Marrowfat  people  who  had  not  called  upon  her. 
One  or  two  elderly  gentlemen  came  up  first,  and 
Barry  not  very  graciously  presented  them.  They 
took  the  nearest  seats,  and  talked  to  her  a  great 
deal.  Encouraged  by  the  conduct  of  these  heads 
of  families,  the  young  men  came  up  too,  and  before 
the  train  reached  Marrowfat  they  were  standing 
three  deep  around  her  seat,  presenting  what  Mrs. 


A  DAY  IN  TOWN.  153 

Corbin,  sitting  alone  with  her  bundles  in  the  rear 
of  the  car,  characterized  afterwards  as  "  a  disgust 
ing  spectacle." 

Phoebe  did  not  know  that  Mrs.  Corbin  and 
her  bundles  were  there ;  she  did  not  know  it  was 
irregular  for  an  Ex-Judge  and  an  Ex-Commodore 
to  be  talking  to  her,  when  Mrs.  Ex-Judge  and 
Mrs.  Ex-Commodore  had  not  been  to  see  her. 
She  only  knew  Barry  and  she  had  had  a  very 
happy  day  together,  and  that  down  in  her  tight- 
est-tied-up  bundle  there  was  a  tiny  gown,  all 
lace  and  cambric  and  embroidery,  that  warmed 
her  very  heart  to  think  about.  She  talked  natu 
rally  and  happily,  but  not  very  much,  and  she 
looked  most  dangerously  handsome.  The  Ex- 
gentlemen  shook  Barry's  hand  warmly  at  parting  : 
upon  their  words,  they  thought  to  themselves,  he 
was  not  to  be  blamed.  Their  elderly  compliments 
had  had  as  much  effect  upon  Phoabe  as  elderly 
compliments  ordinarily  have  upon  the  average 
young  girl.  They  had  made  her  a  little  un 
comfortable,  and  filled  her  with  a  vague  wonder 
whether  these  gentlemen  knew  how  old  they  were, 
and  how  grizzled  and  unpleasing.  The  young 
men  all  seemed  to  her  vastly  below  Barry,  and 
not  nearly  so  nice  as  Peyton  Edwards  ;  but  since 
they  were  his  friends,  of  course  she  must  be  as 
well-mannered  and  amiable  as  she  knew  how  to 
be.  When  they  got  off  the  train  the  most  persist 
ent  of  them  carried  her  bundles,  and  led  her  to 


154  PHCEBE. 

his  dog-cart,  before  which  were  horses  harnessed 
tandem,  and  which  was  altogether  the  most  con 
spicuous  seat  she  could  have  occupied.  But  when 
she  found  that  she  would  have  to  go  alone,  there 
being  no  place  for  Barry,  she  declined,  and  went 
away  with  Barry  through  the  fast-dispersing  mul 
titude. 

She  did  not  consent  to  his  proposal  to  take  a 
hack  ;  had  he  not  told  her  there  was  a  motive  for 
which  to  save  her  pennies?  But  when  they  got 
half-way  up  the  hill,  Barry  looked  so  scowling 
she  regretted  the  economy.  Crowds  of  carriages 
were  passing  them ;  the  rain  of  last  night  had  all 
evaporated,  and  they  were  powdered  with  dust 
from  the  gay  equipages,  whose  inmates  looked  out 
with  the  fine  scorn  of  luxurious  comfort  upon  the 
toiling  pedestrians.  Barry  was  loaded  with  bun 
dles  ;  there  was  even  a  basket  of  peaches  tbat 
was  materially  heavy. 

"  Why  in  thunder  did  n't  you  give  these  things 
to  an  expressman?"  he  said,  impatiently. 

"  That  would  have  cost  as  much  as  a  hack," 
said  Phoebe,  simply. 

"  Bother  the  cost ! "  he  said,  trying  to  shift  them 
into  less  prominence.  But  bundles  are  bundles ; 
they  are  a  mathematical  fact,  and  not  a  chemical 
combination,  which  by  the  heat  of  your  furious 
disgust  you  can  resolve  into  more  portable  ele 
ments.  Assort  and  pack  them  as  he  would,  they 
still  remained  an  ungainly  armful. 


A  DAY  IN  TOWN.  155 

"  I  can't  think  what  you  wanted  of  all  these 
things.  Women  are  never  happy  unless  they  are 
getting  the  house  full  of  trash  from  shops.  I  wish 
you  'd  only  told  me  that  you  had  such  a  lot  of 
parcels." 

Phoebe  looked  hurt ;  she  did  not  tell  him  that 
the  parcels  had  not  increased  in  number  since 
they  were  in  the  city,  but  were  identical  with 
those  he  had  carried  cheerfully  for  her  there. 
Mrs.  Corbin,  now  in  her  comfortable  carriage, 
with  her  own  bundles  beside  her  on  the  seat, 
thought  them  looking  very  far  from  happy  as  she 
passed  them. 

"  He  is  tired  of  her  already,"  she  ejaculated, 
"  and  she  is  already  spoiled  by  the  flattery  of  those 
unprincipled  men." 

Mrs.  Corbin  did  not  make  a  secret  of  these 
discoveries ;  by  noon  the  next  day  it  was  well 
known  in  Marrowfat  that  Barry  and  his  wife  did 
not  live  happily  together. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

LUCY  HEARS   THE   STORY. 

BY  a  later  train  that  day,  Mrs.  Crittenden  and 
her  two  daughters  had  gone  to  town  unpremedi- 
tatedly,  being  tempted  by  the  change  in  the 
weather.  They  returned  in  the  same  train  that 
brought  the  others,  and  found  themselves  in  the 
rear  of  the  same  car,  with  a  dozen  people  whom 
they  knew  seated  near  them.  After  the  exchange 
of  a  few  greetings,  they  were  virtually  quite  as 
much  alone  as  if  they  had  been  on  their  own 
piazza.  The  events  of  the  last  few  months  had 
increased  the  coldness  on  both  sides ;  it  was  as 
difficult  now  to  approach  any  of  the  Crittendens 
as  it  had  at  first  been  to  treat  them  with  neglect. 

Honor  was  tired  with  the  day  in  town  and  a 
little  flushed  with  the  heat,  and  possibly  the  con 
tact  with  so  many  of  her  former  friends.  She 
certainly  did  not  look  as  pretty  as  usual.  Lucy 
had  a  worn,  unyouthful  expression,  which  had 
been  growing  lately  on  her  face ;  it  stung  her 
mother  to  see  it.  Looking  bitterly  at  the  two, 
she  did  not  wonder  that,  social  reasons  apart,  the 
young  men  preferred  her  daughter-in-law,  at  this 


LUCY  HEARS  THE  STORY.  157 

moment,  to  her  daughters.  There  is  nothing  so 
successful  as  success.  A  good  heartache  from  a 
love  affair,  or  a  deep  grief,  sometimes  adds  depth 
and  pathos  to  beauty  ;  but  beware  of  care,  dis 
appointment,  chagrin,  anxiety  of  the  ordinary 
kind,  if  you  have  control  of  a  young  girl's  career. 
There  is  nothing  ages  so  fast  and  so  surely. 

Honor  buried  herself  in  a  book,  and  did  not 
look  up  to  receive  the  perfunctory  salutations 
of  the  gilded  youth  of  Marrowfat  who  passed 
through  the  car.  Lucy  saw  them  or  not,  as  hap 
pened,  and  returned  them  gravely  and  distantly. 
No  one  stopped  to  talk  to  them.  The  circle  round 
Phoebe  was  too  conspicuous  not  to  attract  the 
notice  of  the  most  indifferent  spectator.  Mrs. 
Crittenden  saw  the  whispering  heads  of  some  ma 
trons  in  her  neighborhood,  and  knew  but  too  well 
of  what  they  whispered.  Lucy's  eyes  met  hers 
once  or  twice  in  a  troubled,  questioning  way. 
Poor  Lucy  !  must  she  know  ?  Mrs.  Crittenden 
had  fought  bravely  to  keep  her  in  the  dark,  but  it 
began  to  force  itself  upon  her  that  this  was  no 
longer  right.  Concealment  is  fatal  to  those  "  set  in 
families."  When  one  member  suffers,  all  the  mem 
bers  must  suffer  with  it ;  bandages  and  ligaments 
and  all  the  muffling  in  the  world  will  not  keep  the 
secret  of  the  wound  from  the  rest  of  the  body. 
Lucy  must  suffer  for  Barry's  sin,  and  she  had  bet 
ter  .do  it  intelligently  than  blindly.  Her  first  con 
tact  with  evil  of  this  sort  would  come  cruelly  near ; 


158  PHCEBE. 

but  things  must  work  themselves  out.  We  cannot 
pick  and  choose  for  our  children,  this  trial  now, 
that  chastisement  a  little  later  on,  such  and  such 
an  experience  by  and  by.  The  great  wheel  of 
their  lives  has  been  set  in  motion  by  a  higher 
hand  than  ours,  and  we  must  patiently  submit  to 
see  its  workings. 

And  so  that  night,  as  she  sat  alone  in  the 
library,  she  called  Lucy  to  her  from  the  piazza. 
The  lamps  had  not  been  lighted.  The  slow,  dull 
heat  had  returned,  the  temporary  freshness  having 
passed  away  with  the  effects  of  the  short-lived 
shower.  The  house  was  still,  the  air  was  stag 
nant  ;  the  servants,  even,  sitting  about  the  kitchen 
steps  in  the  rear,  fanning  themselves  with  their 
aprons,  had  not  the  spirit  to  be  noisy  in  their  pet 
ulant  complainings.  Lucy  sat  down  beside  her 
mother  and  put  her  hand  in  hers.  It  was  hard  to 
begin  the  story,  but  once  begun  it  was  an  inex 
pressible  relief  to  the  mother.  She  did  not  spare 
anything,  from  the  first  hearing  of  the  news  to  the 
last  feeling  that  she  had  had  that  day  in  the  cars 
when  she  had  seen  in  such  strong  light  the  social 
gulf  that  Barry's  marriage  had  put  between  them 
and  their  little  world.  And  when  she  described 
the  harrowing  doubts  that  had  beset  her  lest  she 
had  done  wrong  in  using  all  her  influence  to  effect 
it,  Lucy's  quick  breath  and  tightened  grasp  of  her 
hand  as  she  whispered,  "  Mamma,  how  could  you 
ever  have  doubted  ?  "  lifted  a  weight  from  her 


LUCY  HEARS   THE  STORY.  159 

heart.  Lucy  would  help  her  bear  this  burden 
that  had  seemed  so  intolerable.  Lucy  said  few 
words,  and  those  very  low- whispered  ones ;  but 
her  mother  felt  the  beating  of  her  heart  and  the 
hot  trembling  of  her  hand,  and  was  thankful  for 
the  darkness  that  hid  the  shame  and  pain  in  her 
eyes.  At  last  came  the  question  that  she  dreaded  : 

"  Mamma,  do  you  think  that  he  loved  her,  and 
that  he  would  have  done  it  of  himself  ?  " 

"  That,  Lucy,  you  know  as  much  about  as  I 
do.  When  the  secrets  of  all  hearts  are  revealed  I 
may  know,  but  not  before.  I  shall  never  get  near 
enough  to  Barry  to  ask  him  ;  he  will  never  of  his 
own  will  approach  anything  so  painful.  Some 
times  I  think  he  never  could  have  left  her,  there 
is  so  much  to  make  her  beloved  ;  then,  again,  I 
watch  in  vain  for  any  sign  of  the  lover.  I  appeal 
in  vain  to  my  knowledge  of  human  nature.  Barry 
is  a  sealed  book  to  me  in  these  days.  I  don't 
know  whether  he  is  one  of  those  men  to  whom 
love  is  impossible  without  respect,  or  whether  the 
tenderness  of  his  early  passion  would  cover  the 
frailty  of  virtue  that  to  most  men  is  unpardona 
ble.  All  experience  is  against  the  probability  of  a 
man's  valuing  what  is  forced  upon  him.  And  yet 
he  had  an  alternative  ;  he  was  not  forced  into  it. 
It  was  made  possible  for  him  to  go  away.  On  the 
other  hand,  did  he  do  it  from  duty,  —  from  the 
sort  of  conviction  that  you  and  I  have,  Lucy  ? 
Your  father  would  tell  me  that  such  a  view  of 


160  PHCEBE. 

duty  is  just  a  woman's  notion  :  and  we  have  never 
thought  Barry  likely  to  take  a  woman's  view  of 
duty ;  happy  if  he  took  a  man's  !  No,  my  child, 
it 's  all  a  riddle  to  me.  I  can  only  watch  with  a 
sore  heart  the  working  out  of  what  with  perhaps 
rash  assurance  I  at  first  said  was  the  right  thing 
to  do.  Your  father  is  against  me  in  it,  and  every 
day  hardens  his  convictions  and  weakens  mine.  I 
have  put  it  out  of  my  power  to  win  Phoebe's 
confidence,  by  my  unhappy  failure  of  charity 
when  her  wretched  mother  came  to  me.  I  am  her 
enemy,  and  I  am  not  Barry's  friend,  apparently. 
I  have  spoiled  life  for  you  and  Honor,  and  the 
courage  of  my  convictions  seems  to  have  left  me 
just  when  I  needed  it  most.  You  must  help  me, 
Lucy,  —  help  me,  and  forgive  me  if  I  have  done 
you  and  Honor  harm.  God  knows  nobody  ever 
meant  to  do  right  more  earnestly.  I  thought  I 
knew  what  it  would  cost." 

"  And  if  you  had  known,  mamma,  you  would 
have  done  it.  If  you  had  it  to  do  to-morrow  you 
would  do  it  again.  I  shall  never  think  that  you 
could  do  anything  else." 

And  so  Lucy  helped  bear  the  bitter  load.  A 
new  light  came  into  her  eyes,  and  the  worn,  anx 
ious  look  left  her  face.  She  had  a  mission,  to  help 
Barry,  to  soothe  Honor,  and  above  all  to  aid  her 
mother  to  bear  courageously  the  penalty  of  doing 
right.  Perhaps  no  discipline  could  have  been  as 
good  for  her  as  this  was.  It  gave  play  to  all  her 


LUCY  HEARS  THE  STORY.  161 

virtues,  self-sacrifice,  tenderness,  high  conception 
of  duty,  while  it  corrected  some  of  her  mistaken 
enthusiasms,  and  supplied  her  with  the  wholesome 
though  bitter  tonic  of  practical  common  sense. 

After  all,  parents  do  not  always  know  what  is 
good  for  their  children,  and  it  is  just  as  necessary 
to  submit  in  an  humble  spirit  to  their  children's 
discipline  as  to  their  own. 
U 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

LEFT   BEHIND. 

IT  was  February  ;  damp  snow  below,  wet  fog 
above.  Little  rivers  ran  parallel  with  the  side 
walks,  where  there  rose  little  mountain-chains  of 
snow  banks,  as  yet  undigested  by  the  thaw.  The 
air  was  full  of  splash  and  drip,  and  a  smell  of  moist 
wood  and  moist  earth  and  moist  everything.  The 
country  was  at  its  most  unlovely  point,  the  "  awk 
ward  age  "  of  the  year.  The  "  getting  about " 
was  so  bad  that  nobody  got  about.  The  Critten- 
dens'  door-bell  did  not  ring  once  a  day.  But 
some  changes  had  taken  place  in  the  household  since 
the  August  drought.  The  cottage  was  shut  up, 
and  the  third  floor  was  now  the  home  of  Barry  and 
his  wife  and  the  little  boy  who  had  been  born  to 
them  in  December.  The  draughts,  and  the  leaks, 
and  the  necessity  for  stoves  made  the  cottage  a 
more  desirable  residence  for  gardeners  than  for 
gentle-folks.  Phoebe  had  consented  for  the  baby's 
sake  to  give  up  her  own  will,  and  Barry  found 
himself  so  fretted  by  the  discomforts  of  the  little 
shanty  that  he  would  have  made  a  much  more  de 
cided  abdication  of  independence  than  this  without 
complaint. 


LEFT  BEHIND.  163 

Virtue  was  its  own  reward,  however.  Shortly 
after  the  change  had  been  made  another  was  de 
termined  on.  The  successful  termination  of  one 
or  two  important  suits  gave  Mr.  Crittenden  an 
impression  that  he  was  not  nearly  so  poor  as  he 
had  thought  himself  all  summer.  A  good  deal  of 
money  in  his  hand  is  apt  to  change  the  views  of 
even  the  most  prudent  man.  No  doubt  Mr.  Crit 
tenden  ought  to  have  invested  it  all  in  government 
bonds,  and  gone  on  in  his  path  of  retrenchment  un 
moved.  But  instead  he  considered  that  his  girls 
had  had  a  very  dull  summer  and  that  seven  o'clock 
came  much  too  early  for  comfort  at  this  season, 
and  he  proceeded  to  find  them  a  charming  and  not 
inexpensive  suite  of  rooms  in  town,  whither  with 
much  dispatch  and  some  rejoicing  they  went  for 
the  winter,  leaving  Barry  and  Phoebe  to  keep 
house  alone. 

This  was  delightful,  and  Phoabe  was  most  happy 
till  the  fogs  and  the  snows  and  the  thaws  seemed 
to  make  it  a  necessity  for  her  husband  to  spend 
two  or  three  nights  in  every  week  with  them  in 
town.  Barry's  spirits  improved  very  much  about 
this  time.  These  little  tastes  of  town  invigorated 
him.  He  appeared  to  have  thrown  off  the  incubus 
of  Marrowfat  condemnation.  His  sisters  were 
enjoying  themselves,  Tartar  was  constantly  with 
them,  the  atmosphere  was  a  fresh  one,  his  ready 
popularity  made  him  happy  again.  People  are  not 
critical  in  a  large  city  ;  they  want  to  be  amused, 


164  PHCEBE. 

and  they  do  not  ask  questions.  Barry  -was  unen 
cumbered  ;  he  was  "  small  change "  for  dinner 
parties  ;  he  was  always  in  demand  ;  he  had  so  many 
invitations  that  he  had  a  feeling  of  great  virtue 
when  he  waded  through  the  slush  every  other 
night,  on  his  way  home  to  his  wife  and  baby. 

"  It  is  n't  every  man  would  do  this,"  he  would 
say  to  himself  as  he  kicked  the  snow  off  his  boots 
at  the  door,  on  some  dismal  nights  when  it  was 
pitch  dark  at  six  o'clock.  Yet  he  liked  to  do  it ; 
he  liked  to  feel  he  was  doing  better  than  most  men 
would  do.  He  was  not  bitter  about  it  ;  he  was 
quite  cheerful.  He  enjoyed  the  baby  ;  the  house, 
when  he  got  to  it  through  the  slush  and  fog,  was 
quite  as  delightful  as  any  city  house  could  be, 
his  little  dinners  were  above  criticism,  and  his 
wife  always  handsome  and  not  reproachful.  If  it 
had  not  been  for  the  importunity  of  the  givers  of 
dinners  and  the  getters-up  of  theatre-parties  it  is 
quite  possible  he  would  have  come  home  every 
night  without  feeling  bored.  Still  it  did  heighten 
his  spirits  to  taste  the  wine  of  social  pleasure 
again  ;  it  did  please  him  to  be  desired  and  ap 
proved. 

A  most  absorbing  interest,  too,  arose  at  this 
time.  Somebody  got  up  some  theatricals,  and 
found  the  Crittendens  useful.  Honor  was  de 
lighted  to  be  asked  to  play,  and  Barry  was 
"  roped  in, "  according  to  his  own  account  very 
much  against  his  will,  but  he  did  not  seem  to 


LEFT  BEHIND.  165 

make  great  struggles  to  get  free.  The  rehearsals 
were  endless  ;  every  page  of  the  three-act  drama 
must  have  consumed  about  a  week  of  time,  if 
everybody's  studying,  rehearsing,  costuming,  con 
sulting,  journeying,  were  summed  up  accurately 
together.  Barry  professed  great  disgust  of  the 
whole  thing  before  it  was  over.  "If  he  were  ever 
caught  in  such  a  scrape  again  !  "  But  he  did  not 
seem  to  think  he  could  be  excused  from  anything, 
not  even  one  of  the  three  suppers  which  succeeded 
the  final  and  not  very  triumphant  representation 
of  the  play.  Phoebe  ought  to  have  admired  his 
sense  of  duty  very  much.  "  When  you  've  once 
undertaken  a  thing  you  've  got  to  see  it  through." 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  the  days  were  very 
long  and  the  nights  very  dark  to  the  young  wife 
left  at  home.  But  she  had  her  baby,  she  was 
very  busy,  and  she  was  not  inclined  to  dwell  upon 
the  thought  that  she  was  ill-used. 

At  last,  however,  there  came  a  day  so  dark  that 
it  made  all  these  look  light,  when  she  recalled 
them.  Barry  had  come  home  looking  unusually 
animated  and  eager.  She  had  a  feeling  that  some 
thing  had  happened  to  rouse  him  beyond  the  or 
dinary.  She  longed  rather  apprehensively  to  know 
what  it  was,  and  wished  that  she  had  the  ability 
to  say  plainly  to  him,  What  is  it  that  has  excited 
you  so  much  ? 

Evidently  he  had  made  up  his  mind  not  to  re 
veal  his  matter  till  after  dinner.  He  caressed  the 


166  PHCEBE. 

baby  with  unusual  fervor,  he  praised  the  dinner 
freely ;  there  was  compunction  with  his  fervor, 
surely.  Pho3be's  appetite  faltered  fatally  ;  what 
was  coming  to  explain  his  mood  ?  At  last  it 
came,  after  the  dinner  had  been  taken  away,  and 
the  baby,  and  they  were  sitting  alone  by  the 
library  lire. 

"  What  should  you  say,  Phoebe,  if  I  went  away 
for  a  little  while  ?  Could  Master  Baby  take  care 
of  you  for  a  matter  of  six  weeks  or  two  months  ? 
He  looks  to  me  capable  of  it.  Let  me  tell  you  all 
about  it.  We  've  had  a  certain  turn  of  things  at 
the  office.  These  railroad  matters  have  occupied 
my  father  pretty  closely,  and  a  telegram  yesterday 
settled  it  that  he  's  got  to  go  across.  Then  came 
the  worry  about  leaving  my  mother  and  the  girls. 
Going  abroad  is  what  they  've  all  been  longing 
for,  for  years,  —  here  was  the  chance.  Mamma 
had  a  thousand  minds  about  it,  but  Honor  only 
one,  and  I  believe  Lucy  was  '  unanimous  ! '  So 
the  fact  is,  I  've  been  racing  over  town  all  day 
like  mad,  have  arranged  everything:  given  up 
their  apartments,  got  state-rooms,  written  letters, 
settled  matters  at  the  office,  and  done  the  work  of 
twenty  able-bodied  men.  Father  growls,  but  I 
think  he  likes  the  idea,  and  there  is  n't  a  doubt 
but  that  the  change  will  do  them  all  good.  They 
had  got  in  a  rut,  and  the  girls  would  have  a  beast 
of  a  time  this  summer  if  they  stayed  at  home." 

"  But  you,"  said  Phoebe,  faintly,  —  "  I  don't 
understand." 


LEFT  BEHIND.  167 

"  Oh,  well,  I  had  n't  got  there  yet.  You  see 
this  is  the  way  it  stands.  If  I  don't  go  with  them 
my  father  's  got  to  come  back  at  once.  If  I  go  I 
can  take  the  first  steamer  home  after  it 's  settled, 
bring  back  the  papers,  and  attend  to  the  matter 
at  this  end  of  the  line,  and  leave  him  to  a  holiday 
of  several  months.  There  is  enough  there  to  re 
quire  his  attention  and  to  give  him  a  feeling  that 
he  's  right  to  stay ;  in  fact,  if  he  did  n't  stay  I  'd 
have  to.  Somebody  's  got  to  be  on  hand  there  as 
well  as  here.  You  see,  it 's  an  important  matter, 
and  we  have  just  got  to  give  up  our  individual  in 
terests,  and  take  hold  of  it.  I  don't  like  to  ask 
you,  Phoebe,  to  stay  so  long  alone,  but  I  don't  see 
how  it  can  be  helped.  I  've  thought  it  over  on  all 
sides.  It  seems  the  best  arrangement  I  can  make. 
Father  needs  the  rest.  It  would  be  hard  on  him, 
at  his  age,  to  make  that  voyage  and  come  directly 
back,  and  probably  have  to  go  again  in  six  weeks' 
time.  Whereas  if  I  go  with  him,  get  all  the  ins 
and  outs  of  the  matter  the  little  while  I  'm  there, 
and  come  back,  I  can  intelligently  conduct  the 
case  here,  and  bring  things  to  a  successful  issue. 
There  's  a  good  deal  of  money  in  it  and  a  good 
deal  of  glory,  and  I  like  to  feel  my  father  trusts 
me  enough  to  leave  things  on  this  side  to  me.  It 's 
just  the  place  where,  if  I  hung  back  on  the  score 
of  leaving  you,  he  could  reproach  me  with  my 
marriage.  I  've  counted  on  you,  Phoebe,  to  help 
me,  and  I  know  you  won't  mind,  for  such  a  little 
while." 


168  PHCEBE. 

Such  a  little  while !  If  one  night  was  long,  what 
would  sixty  be.  A  terrible  sinking  of  the  heart 
made  Phoebe's  lips  white,  but  she  managed  to  say, 
"  I  can  see  that  it  is  best  for  you  to  go." 

"  That 's  right,"  he  said,  stooping  down  and  kiss 
ing  her.  "  I  knew  you  'd  look  at  it  in  that  way. 
I  don't  mind  telling  you  now  that  my  mother  op 
poses  it,  and  thinks  I  ought  not  to  leave  you  alone, 
with  the  baby  so  young  and  all  that.  I  told  her  I 
would  put  it  before  you,  and  if  you  did  n't  think 
it  best  there  should  not  be  a  word  more  said  about 
it.  But  I  shall  be  proud  to  tell  them  you  're  not 
the  woman  to  stand  in  the  way  of  your  husband's 
business  interests." 

"  And  private  pleasures,"  said  a  voice  within 
her.  Her  heart  had  grown  so  stony  heavy  it 
did  not  seem  that  it  could  sink  any  lower.  That 
he  was  going  would  have  been  bad  enough,  but 
that  he  was  going  with  such  spirit,  with  such  ill- 
concealed  pleasure  in  the  change  of  scene  and 
prospect  of  amusement,  made  it  almost  more  than 
she  could  bear.  Once  having  got  over  the  bad 
business  of  telling  her  of  it,  his  relief  made  him 
more  communicative  than  his  usual  habit.  He 
drew  upon  her  sympathy  in  all  his  plans ;  he  ex 
pected  her  to  see  how  great  the  advantage  to  him 
was,  how  much  he  would  gain  by  the  experience. 
All  the  details  of  preparation  were  delightful  to 
him,  and  he  seemed  to  think  they  would  naturally 
be  the  same  to  her.  He  was  the  sort  of  man  who 


LEFT  BEHIND.  169 

makes  a  good  traveler,  loving  travel,  being  sys 
tematic,  observant,  self-reliant.  He  had  never 
had  enough  of  it,  and  had  resented  that  part  of 
his  fate  always,  and  in  other  days  been  inclined  to 
reproach  his  parents  with  not  giving  him  a  year 
abroad  before  settling  him  down  at  the  study  of 
the  law. 

Phoebe  was  not  unreasonable :  she  repeated 
these  facts  over  to  herself  ;  she  added  to  them 
that  he  had  been  working  hard  for  several 
months ;  that  he  was  stimulated  by  the  prospect 
of  pleasing  his  father  and  showing  himself  a  man 
in  business  matters.  He  was  going  with  his  fam 
ily,  too,  who  were  in  every  way  agreeable  and 
companionable.  It  was  but  for  a  short  time,  as 
the  world  counts  time.  She  was  safe,  well  pro 
vided  for  ;  the  baby  was  perfectly  healthy.  It 
was  in  no  way  an  unjustifiable  request  that  she 
should  stay  contented  at  home  while  he  went 
abroad  on  a  legitimate  call  of  business.  It  was 
not  unjustifiable,  but  oh  !  — 

Your  inarticulate  natures  have  a  good  deal  to 
bear  in  the  way  of  imposed  attributes.  If  a  woman 
does  not  say  she  is  unhappy,  it  is  so  much  more 
comfortable  to  think  she  is  happy,  that  those  near 
her  get  in  the  habit  of  concluding  that  she  is  ; 
if  she  does  not  scold,  that  she  does  not  mind  ;  if 
she  does  not  draw  a  dagger,  that  she  is  not  jealous  ; 
if  she  does  not  complain,  that  she  is  satisfied  with 
what  is  being  done;  if  she  listens  silently,  that 


170  PHCEBE. 

she  is  wholly  sympathetic.  Now  Phoebe  found  it 
not  the  least  of  her  trials  that  she  was  talked  to  as 
if  she  were  his  elder  sister,  or  his  aunt,  or  almost 
his  mother,  by  this  eager  youth  on  the  threshold 
of  his  adventure  in  the  world.  And  not  only  by 
him,  but  by  the  others,  who  came  home  for  their 
last  day  and  night,  to  settle  up  matters  for  their 
absence. 

"  Is  n't  it  nice  for  Barry  ?  "  whispered  Lucy, 
counting  on  her  sympathy. 

"  Does  n't  Barry  look  like  a  prince  in  his  new 
ulster?"  cried  Honor.  "  Phoebe,  you  won't  mind 
if  we  don't  tell  people  that  lie  's  married  !  " 

"  If  Barry  keeps  his  mind  on  his  business,  he 
may  make  something  yet,"  said  her  father-in-law 
to  her  as  he  went  in  to  dinner.  As  he  rarely  said 
anything  to  her,  she  concluded  it  was  meant  to 
indicate  he  approved  of  her  for  not  putting  any 
thing  in  the  way  of  Barry's  going.  Only  her 
mother-in-law  was  silent  and  watched  her  nar 
rowly.  "  You  are  a  little  pale,"  she  said,  when 
they  were  alone  in  the  nursery. 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Phcebe,  with  a  rush  of  crimson 
to  her  face. 

"  You  must  n't  let  the  baby  keep  you  awake  at 
night,"  said  the  mother,  with  foreboding,  seeing 
where  the  wound  was,  and  that  she  could  not 
offer  sympathy.  "  Let  Mary  Ann  take  him,  if  he 
bothers  you  at  night.  You  know  young  mothers 
must  get  sleep  enough." 


LEFT  BEHIND.  171 

It  was  a  very  bright-shining  day,  that  last  day 
at  home.  The  sun  shone  with  brilliant  effect 
on  the  fresh  snow  that  had  fallen  the  night  be 
fore.  The  sky  was  unnaturally  blue,  it  seemed  to 
Phoebe.  It  hurt  her  eyes  to  look  out  of  the  win 
dow.  Sleigh-bells  sounded  from  the  road  with  a 
jingle  that  fretted  her  nerves.  They  were  all  to 
go  in  a  late  afternoon  train ;  their  steamer  sailed 
the  next  morning.  It  had  at  first  been  planned 
that  Barry  should  stay  at  home,  and  follow  them 
in  an  early  morning  train.  But  some  doubt  arose 
about  somebody  being  seen  at  the  office,  whom 
Mr.  Crittenden  did  not  think  he  would  have  time 
to  see  if  he  had  the  charge  of  the  family's  get 
ting  off.  So  it  was  decided  Barry  should  go  with 
them  and  spend  the  night  in  town. 

This  decision  was  arrived  at  just  before  they 
sat  down  to  their  early  dinner.  It  was  not  an  un- 
cheerful  meal.  Honor's  spirits  were  wild.  Lucy 
was  quiet,  but  probably  happy.  Barry  was  too 
busy  to  be  depressed;  every  few  moments  he 
thought  of  something  to  tell  Phoebe,  which  he 
had  forgotten.  The  father  and  mother  were  full 
of  care  and  plans,  but  the  journey  was  a  hopeful 
one ;  they  took  all  their  dearest  with  them  ;  for 
them  there  was  no  parting.  The  sunshine  gave  a 
stimulus  to  their  spirits  ;  the  evergreens  outside 
the  windows  were  sparkling  like  so  many  mam 
moth  aigrettes  ;  the  hills  were  white  against  the 
brilliant  sky  of  blue.  They  were  all  hungry  and 


172  PUCEEE. 

healthy  and  hopeful  —  and  going.  Pliosbe  alone 
was  heavy-hearted  and  unhungry  and  to  be  left 
behind. 

"  Oh,  by  the  way,"  cried  Honor,  "  what  have 
you  done  about  Aunt  David's  state-room,  Barry  ? 
Has  she  made  up  her  mind  to  submit  to  the  ex 
tortion,  or  does  she  take  the  other  one  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Barry,  absently,  —  he  was 
making  an  addition  to  his  already  endless  memo 
randa,  writing  on  the  table  between  his  plate  and 
Phosbe's,  —  "  that 's  all  settled.  Don't  bother  me, 
Honor,  till  I  get  these  things  written  down." 

"  Just  think,  Phoabe,"  said  Lucy,  "  of  Aunt 
David's  consenting  to  go  at  four  clays'  notice ! 
She  is  like  a  girl  in  her  spirit  and  energy.  She 
will  be  the  youngest  of  the  party,  I  am  sure. 
Was  n't  it  hard  upon  her,  though,  to  break  up 
her  winter  quarters,  and  go  off  on  a  sea  voyage 
in  midwinter !  But  she  can't  deny  Tartar  any 
thing." 

"  Tartar  would  have  gone  without  her,  if  she 
hadn't  consented,"  cried  Honor.  "She  has  just 
followed  because  she  did  n't  want  to  be  left  be 
hind.  No  great  credit  in  that.  Nobody  wants  to 
be  left  behind  !  " 

Mrs.  Crittenden's  eyes  involuntarily  sought 
Phoebe's  face :  it  was  so  white  she  almost  made 
the  blunder  of  starting  up  to  go  to  her.  But 
Phoebe  had  not  looked  up  and  had  not  seen  her 
solicitude.  She  sat  still,  her  eyes  cast  down,  her 


LEFT  BEHIND.  173 

agitation  showing  itself  only  by  the  pallor  of  her 
face  and  the  deep  breaths  she  drew.  It  showed 
itself,  however,  only  to  those  who  looked,  and  no 
body  looked  but  Mrs.  Crittenden.  The  rest  were 
all  so  busy. 

It  was  rather  an  irregular  meal,  Barry  leaving 
the  table  two  or  three  times  to  look  after  last 
things,  and  Honor  dancing  to  the  sideboard  more 
than  once  to  supply  the  place  of  the  maid,  who 
had  been  sent  up-stairs  for  something  suddenly 
remembered. 

"  Oh,  horrid  old  Marrowfat ;  how  glad  I  am  to 
be  going  away  from  it ! "  she  cried,  starting  up 
as  her  father  left  the  table. 

The  next  hour  was  a  very  busy  one.  The  last 
things  to  be  put  in  the  valises,  the  last  orders  to 
be  given  to  the  servants ;  expressmen,  hackmen, 
next  summer's  gardener  ;  a  real-estate  agent  to 
know  if  the  place  would  possibly  be  in  the  mar 
ket,  a  man  with  a  forgotten  bill  of  butter  eaten 
six  months  ago  ;  the  reporter  of  the  "  Chronicle  " 
to  write  up  a  local  item  ;  a  laundress  who  wanted 
a  recommendation ;  a  poor  man  whose  family  had 
developed  pneumonia  ;  the  carpenter  to  see  about 
the  parlor  shutters  ;  the  locksmith  to  tighten  the 
hasps  of  one  of  the  steamer  trunks.  It  was  a 
racking  pressure  ;  the  afternoon  sun  was  sinking, 
the  brilliance  fading  from  the  snow,  when  the 
hour  for  starting  came. 

"Come,"    cried    Mr.     Crittenden,    impatiently 


174  PH(EBE. 

(every  one  was  at  the  end  of  his  or  her  patience), 
"  there  is  no  time  to  be  lost  if  we  catch  the  train. 
The  sleigh  is  at  the  door." 

Phoebe  stood  half-way  down  the  stairs  on  the 
landing-place,  with  the  baby  in  her  arms.  Barry 
was  up-stairs,  the  rest  were  below.  The  girls  ran 
up  and  kissed  her  good-by,  and  caressed  the 
placid  baby.  It  was  the  instinct,  probably,  of  not 
taking  the  baby  too  near  the  outer  door,  where  the 
cold  air  rushed  in,  that  made  her  stand  there  and 
allow  her  father-in-law  to  come  up  and  give  her 
his  cold  kiss  and  a  half  mocking  good-by  to  the 
little  heap  of  white  cambric  in  her  arms,  but  she 
did  not  say  so,  or  explain  herself.  She  went  down 
a  step  to  meet  her  mother,  whose  kiss  was  not 
cold,  and  who  whispered  in  her  ear,  — 

"  Good-by,  I  will  take  care  of  him  for  you." 
Then  she  had  some  right  in  him  !  But  she  did 
not  answer.  They  might  as  well  have  been  saying 
good-by  to  a  statue  on  the  landing-place.  They 
hurried  out  and  into  the  sleigh,  and  the  horses 
shook  their  bells  restlessly,  but  still  Barry  had  not 
come.  His  father  called  out  for  him  impatiently, 
almost  angrily  ;  the  hall  door  stood  ajar,  and  the 
icy  current  of  air  was  forcing  itself  into  the  hall. 
Phcebe  stood  instinctively  holding  the  baby's 
head  against  her  shoulder  with  her  hand,  but  she 
was  not  thinking  about  it  much.  She  was  listen 
ing  for  Barry's  step  above,  and  hearing  his  father's 
voice  below.  There  was  indeed  not  a  moment  to 
lose. 


LEFT  BEHIND.  175 

**  Yes,  I  'm  coming  !  "  he  called  out  from  the  up 
per  floor,  and  he  came  down  hurriedly.  "  Phoebe, 
you  '11  have  to  see  to  the  locking  of  my  desk ;  I 
can't  get  the  key  out.  Confound  the  hurry  !  It 
all  comes  of  going  so  many  hours  before  I  had 
arranged  to." 

A  sense  of  suffocation  came  over  Phoebe  as  his 
step  reached  the  stair  on  which  she  stood ;  a 
crowding  of  too  much  into  a  space  that  would  not 
hold  it. 

"  Good-by,"  he  said,  taking  her  in  his  arms  and 
kissing  the  baby  and  her  alternately.  "  Good-by, 
good-by." 

He  held  her  closely,  and  she  clung  against  him, 
going  down  step  by  step,  till  they  reached  the  hall. 
Her  lips  moved,  but  she  could  hardly  make  him 
understand  the  only  words  she  could  speak : — 

"  Don't  forget  —  baby." 

He  laughed  lightly.  "And  how  about  you?  " 
he  said,  giving  her  a  final  fervent  kiss  at  the  door, 
as  his  father  called  him  harshly  from  outside.  He 
had  laughed  lightly.  Barry  would  laugh  so  when 
he  stepped  into  the  boat  to  cross  the  Styx ;  but 
his  face  had  been  pale  and  his  kiss  fervent.  He 
pulled  the  door  shut  after  him  ;  it  closed  with  a 
heavy  noise.  Phoebe,  staggering  against  it,  leaned 
listening  till  the  sleigh-bells  passed  out  of  hearing 
into  the  road,  and  were  lost.  Then,  with  a  low 
cry  that  it  is  to  be  hoped  the  servants  did  not 
hear,  she  caught  the  baby  against  her  breast,  went 


176  PIKEBE. 

flying  up  the  stairs  to  her  own  room,  locked  the 
door,  and,  panting,  put  the  child  into  its  cradle, 
flung  herself  upon  the  floor  beside  it,  and  burying 
her  face  in  the  soft  blankets  rocked  backward  and 
forward  in  her  oppressive  anguish.  She  fought 
her  battle  alone ;  the  baby  went  to  sleep,  rocked 
by  her  sorrow  as  he  had  been  borne  by  her  pain, 
and  equally  unconscious.  The  servants  gathered 
together  below,  and  chattered  over  the  going  in 
the  idle  twilight. 

And  in  the  fast-rattling  train,  Barry  no  doubt 
got  over  his  pallor  and  his  fervor,  and  possibly 
even  the  mother's  foreboding  heart  grew  lighter. 
It  is  so  much  easier  to  go  than  to  stay,  to  be  ac 
tive  than  passive,  to  be  a  man  than  to  be  a  woman. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

ISOLATION. 

AFTER  all,  to  a  reasonable  being  in  fair  health 
there  are  few  troubles  that  are  unbearable.  That 
first  night  was  bad  enough,  and  the  second  little 
better ;  but  soon  the  sorrow  settled  down  into  a 
habit,  and  was  worn  accordingly,  and  not  taken 
into  the  hand  and  inspected  hourly.  Then  she 
resolved  stoutly  to  make  the  best  of  it,  and  not  to 
hurt  the  baby  by  fretting.  Making  the  best  of  it 
involved  keeping  herself  busy  and  scrupulously 
attending  to  every  smallest  duty  of  the  household. 
Things  had  been  left  entirely  to  her  discretion  as 
to  the  housekeeping.  She  had  been  told  to  keep 
as  many  of  the  servants  as  she  chose  ;  to  use  what 
ever  rooms  she  liked  ;  to  act,  in  effect,  exactly  as 
if  the  house  were  hers. 

On  the  third  day  after  they  had  gone  she  roused 
herself  to  look  into  the  situation  and  make  her 
plans.  It  pleased  her  to  feel  she  was  doing  dis 
creetly  with  the  matters  left  in  her  charge.  She 
was  saving  money,  if  the  rest  were  spending  it. 
Barry's  baby  had  a  right  to  a  home ;  she  was 

merely  staying  in  it  to  take  care  of  him.    If  there 
12 


178  PIKEBE. 

was  a  touch  of  bitterness  in  these  reflections,  they 
gave  her  the  nerve  she  might  have  lacked  to  dis 
miss  the  unnecessary  servants  and  place  things  on 
an  economical  footing.  The  cook  was  reduced  to 
a  general  servant,  and  Mary  Ann  kept  for  the 
baby's  nurse.  All  the  best  bedrooms  were  shut 
up,  except  the  two  on  the  third  story  which  had  al 
ways  been  Barry's.  The  parlors  were  cleaned  and 
clothed  in  their  drab  coverings  and  locked  ;  the 
dining-room  alone  was  open.  The  furnace  was 
put  on  half  rations ;  the  butcher  and  grocer  were 
made  to  understand  that  the  family  was  almost 
extinct ;  the  gas-bill  was  nearly  nominal.  All  these 
changes  were  not  effected  without  effort :  but  your 
true  reformer  is  he  who  has  not  much  to  lose,  and 
who  "sits  loose  to  the  world,"  as  the  pious  old 
books  say.  A  dash  of  recklessness  helps  one 
through  some  trying  domestic  situations  wonder 
fully.  The  whole  matter  seemed  trivial  and  un 
important  to  Phrebe,  aching  with  her  real  sorrows, 
and  she  carried  it  through  with  so  high  a  hand 
that  it  was  necessarily  successful.  The  most  vital 
element  in  the  management  of  servants  is  not  to 
be  afraid  of  them.  Phrebe  did  not  care  in  the 
least  whether  Mary  Ann  stayed  or  went,  or 
whether  the  cook  resented  her  reduction  or  not ; 
she  had  at  heart  almost  a  feeling  that  it  would  be 
agreeable  to  her  if  they  all  went  away,  and  left 
her  and  baby  alone  in  the  third-story  room, 

"  Rolled  in  one  another's  arms,  aiid  silent  in  a  last  embrace." 


ISOLATION.  179 

She  rather  invited  anarchy :  she  was  in  a  mood  to 
have  welcomed  change.  And  so  the  cook  meekly 
took  her  increased  work  and  decreased  pay,  and 
Mary  Ann  made  herself  agreeable  to  the  baby 
and  filled  many  minor  offices  in  the  house  without 
a  murmur,  and  the  butcher  and  grocer  were  as 
respectful  as  when  the  bills  were  huge.  Whether 
this  was  the  perversity  of  fate  or  the  perversity 
of  human  nature  out  at  service  is  not  quite  clear. 
At  all  events,  it  was  so,  and  Phoebe's  days,  once 
started,  rolled  on  without  household  change  or 
friction. 

She  never  went  out  except  to  take  an  occasional 
walk  on  the  loneliest  road  she  could  find,  or  to  go 
to  church.  Often  the  baby  made  it  impossible  to 
go  to  church  ;  she  never  felt  easy  to  leave  him  so 
long  with  the  flighty  Mary  Ann,  but  she  never 
stayed  away  without  a  fretted  feeling.  She  had 
given  up  hoping  that  any  one  would  help  her  and 
hold  out  a  hand  to  her  in  the  path  of  faith  to 
which  she  was  drawn.  They  were  evidently  not 
a  proselyting  people,  these  people  to  whom  her  in 
stincts  were  leading  her  to  join  herself.  One  day 
her  baby  had  been  taken  to  church  and  brought 
to  "  the  illumination  of  baptism,  with  God's  grace 
preventing  his  election,  and  by  an  artificial  neces- 
.sity  and  holy  prevention  engaged  to  the  profession 
and  practices  of  Christianity."  She  had  had  such 
deep  thoughts  they  might  almost  have  forced  their 
way  out  into  words.  But  when  the  service  was 


180  PIKEUE. 

over  and  they  were  coming  away,  the  clergyman 
had  shaken  hands  with  her  cordially  and  cominon- 
placely,  and  had  said  they  had  a  fine  child,  and 
that  he  had  behaved  remarkably  well.  His  words 
and  manner  were  somewhat  unsacerdotal,  though 
sufficiently  civil.  It  would  be  difficult  to  know 
what  she  had  thought  he  ought  to  say  or  do,  but 
he  certainly  had  not  done  it,  whatever  it  was. 
And  from  that  day  she  grew  dumber  than  ever, 
and  knew  she  could  never  speak  to  him.  And  to 
whom  could  she  speak  ?  Between  her  mother-in- 
law  and  herself  there  was  a  gulf  fixed  ;  Lucy  was 
a  little  afraid  of  her,  and  never  knew  exactly  what 
to  say  to  her  on  any  subject ;  and  to  Barry  nobody 
would  ever  think  of  talking  about  such  things. 
So,  one  by  one,  the  chances  had  slipped  away  from 
her,  till  she  had  been  left  in  material  as  well  as 
fancied  isolation. 

Living  "  in  a  corner  of  a  wide  house  "  is  neces 
sarily  dreary  living.  The  stairs  resound  so  when 
you  go  up  them  at  night,  the  doors  slam  with 
.such  an  echo,  the  winds  blow  with  such  insinua 
tions,  the  blinds  have  so  much  to  say,  the  nightly 
solitude  is  so  peopled  with  suggestions.  The  light 
from  Phoebe's  room  shone  across  the  snow  very 
late  at  night  sometimes.  But  the  baby's  good 
condition  showed  that  she  was  not  fretting  unrea 
sonably,  and  if  she  sat  up  late  it  was  to  sew  for 
him,  or  to  write  letters  to  her  husband,  or  to  read 
some  book  that  took  her  thoughts  away  from  her 


ISOLATION.  181 

own  trouble,,  No  young  wife  could  have  behaved 
better  than  she  did  ;  and  if  the  two  months  were 
long  in  passing,  they  did  pass  at  last,  and  she 
found  herself  in  possession  of  a  letter  that  told 
her,  when  this  came  into  her  hands  her  husband 
would  be  half-way  across  the  ocean  on  his  way 
home. 

Barry  was  not  a  fluent  letter-writer.  He  said 
very  little  generally,  and  did  not  say  that  little 
with  an  air  of  voluntariness.  One  had  a  feeling 
he  was  writing  up  his  books,  doing  what  had  to 
be  done,  getting  square  with  his  conscience.  But 
it  was  his  characteristic,  and  Phoebe  had  steeled 
herself  against  being  hurt  by  it.  His  sisters  al 
ways  joked  about  his  dispatches,  and  she  knew 
she  had  no  more  to  complain  of  than  his  family 
had  had  for  years.  This  letter,  however,  that  told 
of  his  coming  home  had  a  few  unusual  words  in 
it  that  gave  her  a  thrill  of  joy.  It  was  better 
than  all  the  diffuseness  of  other  people.  This  he 
must  really  mean,  or  why  should  he  have  said  it  ? 
He  was  surely  glad  that  he  was  coming  back  to 
her,  no  matter  what  or  who  he  left  behind  him. 

The  letters  of  the  others  had  naturally  had 
many  stings  in  them,  notably  Honor's,  who,  hap 
pily  for  her  sister-in-law's  peace  of  mind,  did  not 
find  time  to  write  very  often.  Tartar  occupied  a 
very  prominent  place  in  Honor's  occasional  let 
ters,  and  Barry's  good  spirits  and  great  popularity 
were  strongly  dwelt  upon. 


182  PH(EBE. 

"  You  must  n't  mind  if  lie  comes  back  to  you  a 
little  spoiled,"  she  wrote,  "for  between  mamma's 
and  Lucy's  coddling  and  Tartar's  cousinly  devo 
tion  lie  is  made  entirely  too  rnucli  of  at  home,  and 
when  we  go  out  it  is  positively  revolting.  You  'd 
think  the  women  here  (in  Nice)  had  never  seen  a 
man  worth  looking  at  before." 

Lucy's  letters  and  her  mother's  were  so  devoid 
of  such  observations,  and  so  full  of  soothing  sen 
tences  about  dear  Barry's  natural  anxiety  to  be  at 
home,  that  she  distrusted  them  entirely,  and  found 
them  much  worse  than  Honor's  naive  truth.  But 
here  he  was,  almost  back  again  :  three  days  more, 
and  she  could  see  for  herself  how  spoiled  he  was, 
or  how  glad  to  be  beside  her. 

It  was  not  till  she  knew  that  he  was  away  from 
Tartar  that  she  realized  how  great  and  how  con 
stant  the  strain  had  been  of  knowing  that  they 
were  together  ;  she  had  been  fighting  the  thought 
all  the  time,  and  resisting  the  impulse  to  imagine 
scenes  and  incidents  that  were  torture  to  her. 
But  now  she  had  fought  her  battle,  and  she  knew 
she  had  fought  it  well,  and  the  sense  of  victory 
over  herself  and  of  a  truce  with  fate  was  very 
soothing. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

A   DIDO   OF   TO-DAY. 

IT  was  a  stormy  day  in  early  April,  the  day 
after  Barry's  letter  had  come  heralding  his  return. 
The  little  household  was  in  busy  flutter.  Two 
women  were  undressing  the  parlor  chairs  and  so 
fas,  and  washing  the  windows,  notwithstanding 
the  persistent  splashing  of  raindrops  on  them. 
Mary  Ann  was  busy  below  in  some  unusual  work 
resulting  from  the  great  occasion.  Phoebe,  in  a 
state  of  keen,  expectant  happiness,  was  "  mind 
ing"  the  baby  in  the  little  room  always  called 
Barry's  study,  adjoining  their  bedchamber,  on  the 
third  floor.  It  was  a  pretty  little  corner  room, 
with  two  windows,  an  open  fire,  an  aesthetic  man 
tel,  and  some  nice  engravings.  It  had  never  been 
much  altered  since  Barry's  bachelor  days,  and 
nothing  ever  spoke  to  his  mother's  heart  of  the 
past  as  did  this  place.  To  Phoebe  this  associa 
tion  had  not  been  pleasant,  of  course,  but  she 
rigorously  forbore  to  ask  questions  or  to  propose 
changes.  She  did  not  know  why  that  picture  had 
the  knot  of  faded  pink  ribbon  tied  above  the  cord, 
nor  why  those  two  pipes  crossed  over  the  desk 


184  PIHEBE. 

must  not  be  taken  down,  nor  the  particular  value 
of  that  wisp  of  dried  grass  in  the  Copeland  vase 
in  the  corner.  She  had  endured  the  sight  of  these 
inanimate  incentives  to  jealousy  all  through  the 
lonely  winter.  Now  she  quite  defied  them,  and 
felt  as  she  dusted  them  that  familiarity  had  robbed 
them  of  their  sting.  Nothing,  it  seemed  to  her, 
could  sting  her  to-day,  she  was  so  content.  She 
felt  she  had  earned  her  peace.  She  knew  she  had 
behaved  well :  she  looked  over  the  battle-field  and 
felt  it  had  been  a  sharply-contested  fight. 

The  rain  outside  and  the  peevish  spits  of  snow 
that  occasionally  mingled  with  it  did  not  depress 
her.  She  looked  about  the  room,  and  put  it,  in 
imagination,  in  the  order  in  which  it  was  to  be  on 
Thursday.  In  the  good  weather  which  was  sure 
to  come  to-morrow  it  was  to  be  swept  and  cleaned, 
and  the  windows  were  to  shine  like  crystal.  Mary 
Ann  should  spend  two  hours  on  the  brasses  of  the 
fire-place,  and  she  with  her  own  hands  would  lay 
the  fire  that  would  blaze  up  in  his  welcome. 
There  should  be  flowers  in  those  glasses  and 
fresh  ribbons  for  the  curtains;  and  .baby  should 
lie  there  in  his  berceaunette  with  his  prettiest 
blanket  over  him.  It  was  a  pity  it  rained  so  to 
day,  and  she  could  do  so  little.  At  any  rate,  she 
could  put  the  closet  and  shelves  in  order  and  re 
arrange  the  books  in  the  little  book-case  in  the 
corner. 

This  took  all  too  short  a  time,  and  still  the  baby 


A  DIDO  OF  TO-DAY.  185 

slept.  Many  times  she  went  over  to  him,  and 
touched  the  swinging  cradle  with  a  light  hand, 
and  moved  a  blanket  this  way  or  that,  and  gazed 
fondly  at  him,  and  went  back  to  her  work.  It  was 
a  very  hard  part  of  her  discipline  that  when  she 
was  disturbed  about  her  husband  she  loved  her 
baby  less  rather  than  more.  Instead  of  clinging 
to  him  and  finding  comfort  in  him  she  felt  her 
heart  turned  hard  to  every  one,  even  him,  and  only 
held  him  by  an  instinct  that  seemed  no  higher 
than  that  of  self-preservation.  She  looked  at  him 
with  cold  eyes  when  her  heart  was  hot  with  jeal 
ousy  ;  she  cared  for  him  with  perfunctory  hands 
when  her  min'd  was  filled  with  forebodings  and 
distress.  But  to-day  she  was  happy  in  the  sight 
of  his  beauty  and  health.  She  began  to  feel  that 
he  woidd  be  a  bond  to  bind  her  husband  to  her. 
They  two  could  unite  in  love  and  interest  and  ef 
fort  for  this  child,  who  belonged  almost  equally  to 
both.  She  felt  for  perhaps  the  first  time  as  most 
ordinarily  happy  mothers  feel  always  about  their 
first-born  children. 

Her  instinct,  however,  was  not  to  muse  and 
brood  over  joy  or  sorrow.  So  after  a  few  minutes 
given  to  these  thoughts,  leaning  over  the  cradle, 
she  lifted  herself  up,  and  said,  "  What  shall  I  do 
towards  getting  ready  for  Tliursday  ?  " 

Her  eye  fell  upon  the  desk  that  stood  beside 
the  window.  She  remembered  the  circumstance 
of  the  key  refusing  to  turn  in  the  lock  the  day 


186  PHCEBE, 


her  husband  went  awa}%  and  that  she  had  noticed, 
when  she  had  shut  it  up  and  locked  it,  that  it  was 
in  great  disorder.  She  had  never  looked  into  it 
before  or  since.  Barry  had  always  carried  the 
key  in  his  pocket,  and  it  was  no  doubt  owing  to 
the  obstinacy  of  the  lock  that  day  that  it  was  not 
there  now.  At  another  time  she  would  have 
thought  of  this,  and  reflected  that  she  might  bet 
ter  not  look  into  what  had  never  been  offered  for 
her  inspection.  But  she  was  too  happy  to-day  to 
have  such  thoughts.  It  was  something  she  could 
do  for  him.  It  was  impossible  to  be  doing  any 
thing  with  any  other  motive.  Whatever  she  did, 
even  down  to  her  little  cares  for  "baby,  was  in 
directly  done  with  the  feeling  that  it  was  for  him, 
for  his  child,  who  represented  him.  So  very 
light-heartedly  she  went  to  fetch  the  key  and  un 
lock  the  dusty  desk. 

The  key  was  cranky  again,  but  her  fingers  were 
strong  and  her  intention  was  deliberate.  In  a  few 
moments  it  turned  and  the  doors  opened.  Oh, 
what  an  untidy  place  !  Phoabe  loved  order  and 
neatness  and  thrift,  but  she  thought  it  rather  a 
manly  attribute  to  be  regardless  of  all  these. 
She  laughed  softly  to  herself  as  she  said,  4i  Oh, 
Barry,  this  is  just  like  you  !  "  There  were  keys 
and  pipes,  cigars  an'd  visiting-cards,  note  paper 
and  wrapping  paper,  bills  and  family  letters, 
cheek  by  jowl  in  the  most  d£gagg  manner.  The 
shelves  were  literally  heaped  with  such  elegant 


A  DIDO  OF  TO-DAY.  187 

trifles,  the  pigeon-holes  stuffed  with  papers  which 
were  doubtless  as  incongruous.  She  cleared  the 
shelves  first,  wiping  and  dusting  them  very  care 
fully,  and  arranged  the  contents  with  some  regard 
to  fitness  of  companionship.  Evidently  the  desk 
had  not  been  emptied  for  a  couple  of  years. 
There  were  letters  and  bills  as  old  as  that,  and 
one  knows  what  an  accumulation  of  such  things 
can  be  acquired  in  two  years.  She  assorted  the 
letters  and  filed  the  bills.  Happily  the  bills  were 
receipted,  and  the  letters  were  mostly  from  men, 
or  in  the  handwriting  of  his  sisters  and  mother. 
She  did  not  read  the  letters,  of  course,  but  tied 
them  up  in  decent  order,  bundle  by  bundle,  as  she 
did  her  own.  When  this  was  all  done  she  put 
them  back  neatly  in  piles  as  they  belonged.  The 
shelves  did  not  look  half  full ;  it  was  a  pleasure 
to  see  what  a  little  order  would  do.  Barry  would 
know  where  to  lay  his  hand  on  everything.  In 
future  she  would  ask  him  to  let  her  have  his  keys 
and  keep  things  in  place  for  him.  What  comfort, 
what  a  saving  of  time  and  temper,  it  would  be  ! 
He  would  have  had  ten  minutes  more  for  his  good- 
by  to  her  if  he  had  not  got  embroiled  with  this 
disordered  desk  the  day  he  went  away. 

Baby  moved  a  little  uneasily.  She  left  the  con 
templation  of  the  well-ordered  shelves  and  went 
to  him.  He  did  not  wake,  only  turned  and  fretted 
for  a  moment ;  then  twisting  his  head  down  on  the 
pillow,  and  moving  his  lips  in  the  imaginary  bliss 


188  PHCEBE. 

of  nursing,  sank  again  into  repose.  He  was  a 
beautiful  child,  inheriting  apparently  all  the  mag 
nificent  health  of  his  father  and  mother.  He  had 
a  full  but  delicate  mouth,  chestnut  hair  that  lay 
in  soft  rings  upon  his  forehead,  lustrous  eyes  and 
wonderful  lashes,  and  a  fine  creamy  skin  with 
warm  tints.  There  was  a  little  moisture  on  the 
chestnut  rings,  and  she  turned  back  the  blanket. 
She  lifted  the  pink  hand :  the  fingers  closed 
around  one  of  hers;  it  was  like  undoing  the  ten 
drils  of  a  vine  to  get  them  loosened  without  wak 
ing  him.  So!  She  laid  the  rose-tipped  hand  back 
and  stooped  down  and  kissed  it  lightly,  and  then 
with  a  half  sigh  turned  again  to  her  work. 

But  first  she  put  a  stick  of  wood  on  the  fire  ; 
then  she  looked  out  at  the  unseasonable  storm, 
which  was  turning  to  hail  at  the  moment,  and 
wondered  if  the  invisible  buds  on  the  trees  below 
the  window  would  be  chilled  to  death  by  it,  and 
whether  "the  wonders  under -ground,"  the  up 
starting,  up-pushing  forces  of  the  spring,  would 
be  put  back  by  it.  It  was  hard  to  fancy  the  sun 
s.hining  to-morrow,  but  it  would  shine;  and  on 
Thursday  it  would  be  spring. 

And  then  she  went  practically  to  her  work. 
Any  one  who  has  ever  cleared  out  a  man's  desk 
with  a  tenderness  for  the  man  who  owned  it  can 
understand  the  charity  with  which  she  collected 
overturned  boxes  of  new  pens  from  among  the  lit 
ter  of  old  ones,  and  the  care  with  which  she  dis- 


A  DIDO  OF  TO-DAY.  189 

criminated  between  time-tables  two  years  old  and 
those  of  recent  date.  All  memoranda  in  his  hand 
writing  were  sacred.  She  was  a  good  deal  in  awe 
of  everything  that  looked  like  business  papers. 
Here  was  a  crumpled  slip  of  legal  cap  with  mystic 
words  like  these  upon  it :  — 

"3  Meeson  &  Welsby,  140;  5  C.  &  P.  23. 
See  Tidd." 

She  lifted  it  with  care.  What  might  not  de 
pend  upon  it  ?  Baby's  inheritance  to  the  extent 
of  thousands  might  be  damaged  by  its  loss. 

But  here  was  something  that  did  not  look  like 
—  business.  It  was  put  away  in  one  of  the  up 
per  pigeon-holes  of  the  desk,  far  back.  She  could 
not  remember  whether,  when  she  first  opened  the 
desk,  she  had  taken  away  anything  from  before 
it.  She  rather  thought  not.  It  was  an  envelope, 
and  it  contained  a  paper.  On  the  face  of  the  en 
velope  Barry's  initials  were  written,  and  in  the 
corner  at  the  left,  "  February  2,  188-."  It  was 
Tartar's  handwriting,  and  the  envelope,  which 
had  never  been  sealed,  was  marked  with  her  mon 
ogram.  Phoebe's  heart  tightened  with  the  old 
pang.  She  held  it  in  her  hands.  What  had  Tar 
tar  had  to  say  to  him  on  February  2d?  That  was 
just  the  week  before  the  plan  for  going  abroad 
was  started.  What  had  Tartar  had  to  say  to  him  ? 
She  had  a  right  to  know.  If  men  had  been  writ 
ing  notes  to  her,  Barry  would  have  thought  he 
had  a  right  to  read  them,  if  he  had  found  them 


190  PHCEBE. 

lying  in  his  way.  She  had  never  looked  at  any 
letter  of  his  before  that  he  had  not  given  her  to 
read  ;  but  then  she  had  never  had  in  her  hand  one 
written  him  by  Tartar.  The  temptation  was  new  ; 
the  circumstance  of  her  present  happiness  and 
confidence  made  it  strong.  She  said  to  herself,  "  I 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  myself  for  doubting  him 
after  what  he  said  in  his  letter  the  other  day.  I 
am  ashamed,  and  yet  I  do  doubt.  If  I  look  at 
this,  it  will  stop  the  pain,  it  will  clear  everything 
up.  There  is  nothing  in  it ;  1  know  there  is  noth 
ing  in  it.  If  I  put  it  back  without  looking  inside, 
the  thought  will  torment  me.  It  will  spoil  the 
pleasure  of  his  coming.  It  is  best  to  make  an  end 
of  the  suspicion,  even  by  doing  something  that 
may  hurt  my  self-respect  a  little.  But  why  should 
it  hurt  my  self-respect  ?  I  have  a  right.  It  is 
not  as  if  I  had  had  no  cause  for  distrust.  I  have 
had  cause,  though  I  have  put  away  from  me  the 
recollection  of  it.  I  want  to  end  tins  forever. 
Perhaps  this  will  be  the  last  time  that  I  shall  have 
such  a  feeling."  Still  she  did  not  open  the  letter. 
She  held  it  in  her  hand,  with  her  eyes  fastened 
on  the  inoffensive  words  upon  the  envelope,  her 
lips  pressed  together,  her  whole  face  inscrutably 
changed.  The  baby  roused  and  began  to  fret. 
She  went  to  him  and  bent  over  him,  and  tried  to 
quiet  him,  not  harshly,  but  woodenly,  without  feel 
ing  or  tenderness,  as  if  she  were  thinking  of  things 
in  which  he  had  no  part.  He  refused  to  be  quieted, 


A  DIDO   OF  TO-DAY.  191 

but  twisted  about,  and  put  up  his  struggling  little 
arms.  "  Come,  then,"  she  said,  for  he  was  hungry  ; 
and  taking  him  out  of  his  soft  bed,  she  wrapped 
a  blanket  about  him  and  sat  down  near  the  fire. 
He  nestled  close,  seeking  with  hungry  hands  and 
with  eager  lips,  like  a  little  animal  guided  by  the 
scent  of  food,  the  breast  which  she  made  bare  for 
him.  She  settled  him  on  hei\arm,  and  drew  the 
blanket  over  him,  but  paid  no  further  heed  to 
him.  He  lay  looking  in  her  face  with  the  half- 
speculating  but  satisfied  expression  in  his  eyes 
that  one  often  sees  in  a  nursing  baby's ;  but  she 
turned  away  and  did  not  answer  them.  Finally 
the  wide-open  eyelids  began  to  droop,  the  eager 
lips  drew  less  and  less  eagerly,  and  the  satiated 
baby  slept.  She  pat  him  back  again  in  his  cradle, 
and  settled  the  blankets  over  him,  and  shaded  his 
eyes  from  the  light,  turning  back  to  put  the  ruffles 
of  the  little  pillow  smooth  under  his  shoulder,  and 
to  wipe  away  with  her  handkerchief  the  white  drop 
that  hung  on  his  bright  red  lip.  Then  she  pushed 
the  handkerchief  into  her  pocket  and  drew  out  the 
envelope  again,  going  towards  the  window  as  she 
did  it.  She  held  it  in  her  hand,  not  looking  at  it 
any  more,  but  gazing  with  fixed  eyes  out  upon  the 
dreary,  rain-soaked  scene.  The  shutter,  loosened 
from  its  fastening,  came  banging  against  the  win 
dow,  with  some  caprice  of  the  ill-tempered  wind. 
She  mechanically  put  up  the  sash  and  stretched 
out  her  fine  white  hand  and  arm  into  the  cold 


192  PH(EBE. 

rain  to  fasten  it  back.  A  great  rush  of  chilly  air 
came  into  the  room  before  she  shut  the  window 
down  again.  She  turned,  with  hard  eyes,  to  see 
if  the  noise  or  the  chill  had  disturbed  the  baby's 
sleep.  No  ;  he  had  health  in  his  veins,  and  she 
had  fire  in  hers,  and  neither  of  them  felt  the  icy 
breath  that  had  come  in. 

Should  she  read  it,  and  put  herself  out  of  pain  ? 
For  that  it  would  put  her  out  of  pain  she  con 
fidently  told  hei'self.  An  honorable  instinct  for 
bade  her  to  read  what  was  not  meant  for  her  to 
see ;  but  against  that  honorable  instinct  a  hundred 
good  reasons  marshaled  themselves.  How  could 
a  poor  little  instinct  hold  out  against  this  host? 
The  fight  was  a  hot  one,  but  was  not  very  long. 
She  pulled  the  paper  from  the  envelope.  For  a 
moment  there  was  a  glare  before  her  eyes,  but 
from  the  blur  presently  the  words  came  out. 
There  was  neither  address  nor  signature,  nor  any 
date.  It  was  unmistakably  Tartar's  hand  ;  the 
initials  on  the  paper  were  as  unmistakably  hers. 

Phoebe  read :  "  Without  disguise  and  without 
excuse,  I  have  acknowledged  my  love  for  you. 
Concealment  between  us  in  the  past  was  fatal ;  in 
the  future  it  will  be  impossible.  You  have  taken 
it  out  of  m}'  hands  by  your  abrupt  words  last 
night.  Why  could  you  not  have  been  silent,  when 
speaking  could  no  longer  do  anybody  any  good  ? 
Ah  !  what  we  have  before  us !  This  is  only  the 
beginning.  If  I  see  you  to-morrow,  as  you  ask, 


A  DIDO  OF  TO-DAY.  193 

remember  never  to  ask  it  again.  It  cannot  be 
wrong  to  say  good-by  to  you,  for  it  shall  be  good- 
by,  though  we  may  meet  every  day  for  years. 
Remember,  it  must  be  good-by" 

Phoebe  had  been  reading,  standing  by  the  win 
dow.  Her  eyes  went  two  or  three  times  over  the 
words  before  she  mastered  them.  A  feeling  of 
illness  overcame  her,  and  she  made  two  or  three 
staggering  steps  towards  a  chair,  in  which  she  sat 
down.  There  was  a  tight,  dreadful  feeling  across 
her  chest,  and  her  breath  seemed  stifled  and 
pressed  back  into  it.  All  the  color  went  out  of 
her  face.  Then  it  was  true,  —  all  her  fears,  all 
her  doubts  of  him.  All  his  lightness  of  heart  at 
going  away  meant  that.  All  his  staying  in  town 
through  the  dreary  winter  meant  that.  All  his 
weariness  and  ennui,  his  commonplace  answers, 
his  silences,  his  unlover-likeness,  meant  that ;  and 
all  his  fond  words  in  his  last  letter  to  her  meant 
covering  it  up  and  blinding  her.  She  had  strug 
gled  with  herself  and  reasoned  herself  for  months 
into  believing  that  it  was  just  the  change  that 
comes  over  all  men  after  marriage.  No,  it  was  a 
worse  change  than  other  women  have  to  see.  She 
had  lost  him.  The  love  on  which  she  had  staked 
every tli ing  was  gone,  ended,  dead.  For  the  mo 
ment,  she  did  not  feel  jealous  or  angry.  If  he  had 
been  there,  she  might  almost  have  thrown  herself 
at  his  feet  and  implored  him  to  give  her  back  his 
love.  She  would  have  sued  him  for  it  as  she 

13 


194  PH(EBE. 

would  have  sued  Heaven  for  her  child's  life,  struck 
with  mortal  illness.  The  grief  that  desolated  her 
would  have  made  her  forget  everything  else.  The 
thirst  that  consumed  her  would  have  dried  up  all 
lesser  feelings. 

The  Carthaginian  queen  stretching  out  her 
arms  to  the  ships  fading  from  sight  on  the  "  end 
less  sea"  was  not  struck  with  a  suddener,  more 
appalling  sense  of  helpless  bereavement  than  poor 
nineteenth-century  Phoebe,  sitting,  stunned,  by 
the  aesthetic  mantelpiece  in  Barry's  little  study. 
Human  nature  is  much  alike  in  all  ages.  You 
cannot  do  more  than  love  a  man  entirely,  whatever 
century  you  happen  to  be  born  in.  You  cannot  be 
more  than  desolated,  whether  it  be  by  command 
of  the  gods,  to  which  your  .ZEneas  is  not  dis 
inclined,  or  solicitation  of  the  world,  the  flesh, 
and  the  devil,  which  your  Barry  does  not  resist. 
There  are  diverse  ways  of  taking  your  loss, — as 
diverse  as  the  temperaments  of  women  from  those 
distant  times  till  these.  By  far  the  least  hard  is 
the  heroic  treatment,  if  one's  nerves  and  creed 
permit.  Who  would  not  rather  Dido's  swift 
sword  and  flame,  and  the  chance  of  getting  square 
with  ^Eneas  in  the  other  world,  and  giving  him  a 
piece  of  one's  mind  in  Hades,  than  the  prolonged 
torture  of  a  deserted  woman  nowadays,  like  the 
Madonna  carried  in  procession, 

"  Smiling  and  smart,  . 
With  a  pink  satin  gown,  all  spangles, 
And  seven  swords  stuck  in  her  heart "  ? 


A  DIDO   OF  TO-DAY.  195 

Ah,  we  see  our  JEneases  sail  away  from  us 
sometimes,  we  know  that  they  are  gone  forever, 
while  in  their  places  stay  with  us  some  shadowy, 
strange,  unreal  things  that  wear  their  shapes,  with 
whom  we  have  to  live,  for  whom  we  have  to  smile 
our  smiles  and  curb  our  tongues  and  bear  our  bur 
dens.  All  that  was  easy  to  do  before  is  hard  and 
hateful  now. 

As  Phoebe  sat  motionless  with  the  letter  in  her 
hand,  looking  at  the  smouldering  fire  without  see 
ing  it,  some  far-away  anticipations  of  the  life  she 
would  have  to  lead  came  over  her,  succeeding  the 
first  agony.  It  would  be  only  two  days  before 
she  would  be  obliged  to  meet  him,  to  treat  him  as 
nearly  as  might  be  as  she  had  treated  him  before  — 
before  what  ?  His  treachery  ?  Had  he  meant  to 
desert  her?  Had  he  meant  to  do  what  his  fate  had 
made  him  do  ?  No,  surely,  he  had  never  been  a 
coward,  he  had  never  been  cruel.  It  was  simply, 
destiny  was  too  strong  for  him.  He  had  loved  his 
cousin  all  his  life;  he  had  been  diverted  from 
it  by  some  misunderstanding.  His  cousin  was 
the  one  to  whom  he  belonged  ;  his  wife  was  the 
usurper.  Then  what  a  sharp  pang  came,  and  with 
it  a  rage  of  anger,  a  fire  of  jealousy.  No ;  he 
might  have  loved  Tartar,  —  she  had  played  with 
him,  had  thrown  him  off,  perhaps,  in  the  old  days ; 
but  he  had  loved  her,  Phoebe,  in  that  strange, 
delirious  time,  that  was  so  full  of  bitter  and  sweet 
to  remember,  and  Tartar  had  robbed  her.  She 
was  desolate  no  longer,  but  maddened. 


196  PIIWBE. 

If  she  could  have  hated  him  steadfastly  it  would 
have  been  -easier.  She  did  hate  him,  in  bitter 
gusts  and  tempests  of  feeling,  but  she  yearned  for 
him  so  passionately  that  her  hatred  melted  again 
and  again  at  some  chance  recollection,  and  she 
only  hated  for  ever  and  ever  the  woman  who  had 
lured  him  from  her. 

How  do  people  live  through  days  like  this  ?  It 
gives  one  a  respect  for  the  human  brain  and  the 
material  part  of  us  to  know  that  they  seldom  dis 
solve  or  go  into  chaotic  disorder  under  such  press 
ure. 

When  Mary  Ann  came  up  to  tell  her  mistress 
that  her  dinner  was  ready,  the  girl  started,  and 
asked,  looking  blank,  if  she  were  ill.  As  Mary 
Ann's  perceptive  powers  were  of  the  lowest  order, 
there  must  have  been  some  conspicuous  change  to 
call  out  the  question.  Phoebe  turned  her  face  away 
from  her,  and  said  she  was  not  ill,  but  only  tired  ; 
she  had  the  feeling,  which  she  did  not  arrange  into 
words,  that  she  was  then  putting  on  the  mask 
which  she  would  never  take  off  again  as  long  as 
she  lived.  When  we  are  very  young,  everything 
is  going  to  be  "  forever."  As  we  grow  older  we 
find  that  it  is  possible  to  outlive  .^Eneas  himself 
and  the  sword  of  despair,  and  even  the  flames  of 
annihilation.  Middle-aged  anguish  says  to  itself, 
"  This  will  wear  out."  It  is  by  so  much  less  a 
stimulant. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

PEYTON   EDWARDS. 

TOWARDS  evening  the  rain  turned  to  snow. 
The  ground  was  chilled  enough  to  bear  a  thin  coat 
of  it.  It  looked  a  winter  scene  when  Phoebe  pushed 
her  way  out  of  the  heavy,  slowly  -  moving  front 
door  into  the  early  twilight.  The  snow  had 
ceased  to  fall,  but  the  chill  of  it  filled  the  air, 
which  was  damp  as  well  with  the  long  day  of  rain. 
The  sky  was  dull  with  monotonous  clouds  :  it  was 
all  most  dreary.  There  are  some  states  of  mind 
in  which  one  cannot  stay  in  the  house ;  Phoebe 
had  gone  out  because  it  seemed  as  if  she  could  not 
draw  another  breath  in  the  stifling  atmosphere 
within.  She  longed  to  walk  and  tire  herself, 
and  get  rid  of  this  pain  which  was  to  last  forever, 
and  which  had  just  begun.  She  had  no  purpose  in 
her  walk,  only  to  walk,  and  that  not  slowly.  She 
had  waited  for  the  twilight  because  she  did  not 
want  to  be  seen  by  any  curious  eyes.  Since  Mary 
Ann  had  recognized  the  trouble  on  her  face,  she 
did. not  want  any  one  else  to  have  a  chance  to 
see  it. 

The  houses  along  the  road  are  just  beginning 


198  PHCEBE. 

to  be  lighted :  at  the  door  of  one  a  young  wife 
stands  waiting  for  her  husband,  coming  down  the 
walk  on  his  return  from  town.  Poor  Phoebe 
turns  away  with  a  bitter  pain.  At  another,  a 
nurse  sits  in  the  window  with  a  white  baby  in  her 
arms,  who  drums  upon  the  pane,  while  a  carriage 
turns  in  at  the  gate,  and  an  eager  pair  lean  for 
ward  and  wave  salutations  to  the  baby. 

The  stage  comes  rolling  down  the  road  ;  people 
are  getting  out  at  another  expectant  cottage,  — 
guests,  valises,  welcomes,  kisses.  The  light  from 
the  door  shines  across  the  snow,  —  such  a  babble, 
such  merriment.  Sore-hearted,  she  wonders  what 
they  can  find  to  be  so  happy  about. 

She  passes  an  old  house  that  stands  but  a  little 
way  back  from  the  street.  The  great  trees  in 
front  of  it,  now  bare,  do  not  protect  it  from  the 
passers-by,  nor  the  dry,  brittle  hedge  on  which 
the  snow  is  lying.  A  light  streams  across  the 
wide  piazza ;  between  the  pillars  of  it  is  a  window, 
through  which  one  sees  the  peaceful  picture  of  an 
old  lady  reading  by  a  lamp.  The  street  is  quiet 
here,  no  one  is  passing ;  Phoebe  leans  against  the 
fence  and  gazes  in.  It  is  a  face  she  knows  well 
and  has  often  seen  in  church,  and  thought  of  when 
she  was  in  trouble :  a  sort  of  benediction  that 
blesses  the  eyes  that  look  on  it,  —  serene  with  love 
of  God,  tender  with  love  of  man,  cheering,  self- 
forgetting.  Ah,  Phoebe  wonders,  as  she  looks, 
was  that  peace  bought  through  suffering?  Is  that 


PEYTON  EDWARDS.  199 

power  to  bless  its  price  ?  She  knows  that  in  the 
churchyard,  hard  by,  lie  more  than  one  beloved 
who  have  left  her.  But  they  left  her  that  way. 
One  might  be  the  better  for  sorrow,  but  not  this 
sort.  She  thinks  of  the  children  that  rise  up  and 
call  this  calm  woman  blessed,  of  the  troops  of 
friends  that  gather  round  her  old  age,  of  the  silent 
influence  she  has,  of  the  honor  in  which  her  town's- 
people  hold  her.  Was  it 

"  The  not  uupeaceful  ending  of  a  day 
Made  black  by  morning  storms  "  1 

She  longs  to  speak  to  her,  to  ask  for  her  pity,  her 
prayers.  But  the  calm  saint  reads  on  by  the 
peaceful  household  lamp,  and  poor  Phrebe  goes 
away  uncomforted. 

She  turned  down  another  street  and  went  to 
wards  the  churchyard,  of  which  the  gate  stood 
open.  The  church  itself  was  shut,  not  resembling 
in  all  things  the  God  whom  it  professed  to  repre 
sent,  who  neither  slumbers  nor  sleeps.  It  looked 
dark  and  cold.  She  tried  the  door,  but  it  was 
fastened  against  her.  If  she  could  have  found 
sanctuary  there  for  a  little  while,  and  in  the  si 
lence  and  dimness  have  cried  to  God  before  that 
altar  !  Well,  she  was  not  sure  that  it  would  have 
done  her  any  good.  She  sat  down  on  the  step 
a  while  till  she  grew  cold,  and  then,  remembering 
scornfully  that  she  had  a  body  yet  to  be  taken 
care  of,  she  got  up  and  walked  through  the  snow 
to  the  graves  that  lay  so  still  under  the  still,  bare 


200  P1HEBE. 

trees  and  the  still,  dark  sky.  "  To  mortals  no 
sorrow  is  immortal."  At  least,  she  thought,  there 
is  cure  here.  She  wished  that  her  baby  were  ly 
ing  here  dead,  and  she  beside  him.  She  thought 
of  the  many  paragraphs  in  the  papers,  that  she 
had  read  with  horror,  of  poor  mothers  who  had 
drowned,  or  burned,  or  butchered  their  children, 
and  then  themselves,  when  the  furnace  of  domes 
tic  misery  had  become  too  fiery  hot,  and  their  tor 
tured  nerves  had  reached  the  point  of  madness. 
She  did  not  mean  to  kill  herself ;  she  knew  she 
was  not  mad  ;  she  almost  wished  she  were,  —  that 
would  be  one  way  out  of  it.  What  way  was  there 
out  of  it  for  long-living,  healthy,  strong-suffering, 
silent  Phoebe  ? 

But  it  was  cold.  Her  feet  were  wet,  and  her 
skirts  draggled  with  the  snow  and  slush.  Her 
sense  of  neatness  felt  the  outrage,  even  at  her  high 
tragedy  pitch.  She  left  the  cold  graveyard  and 
the  colder  church,  and  went  out  again  at  the  gate, 
more  desolate  than  she  had  come  in.  Outside  the 
gate  there  was  a  street  lamp,  and  in  the  halo  of 
this  she  stood  for  a  moment  irresolute.  Presently, 
out  of  the  misty  dimness  beyond  it,  came  the 
sound  of  a  man's  step,  and  she  started  uncomfort 
ably.  The  side  street  on  which  the  churchyard 
opened  was  without  houses  ;  it  was  a  lonely  spot, 
though  near  the  heart  of  the  town.  Before  she 
could  get  out  of  the  range  of  the  lamp  the  step 
was  beside  her,  —  an  amazed  exclamation,  and  she 
was  face  to  face  with  Peyton  Edwards. 


PEYTON  EDWARDS.  201 

"  What  are  you  doing  in  the  churchyard  ?  Has 
anything  happened  ?  "  he  said,  in  a  direct  way,  for 
it  was  impossible  to  talk  conventionally  in  such  a 
spot,  and  with  Phoebe's  face  arid  dress  testifying 
so  loudly  to  her  abandoned  misery.  She  did  not 
answer,  but  turned  silently  towards  home,  and  he 
•walked  beside  her. 

"  Nobody  is  ill  ?  "  he  asked.  "  You  have  n't 
heard  bad  news  from  —  them  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  said,  slowly. 

"  There  's  something  wrong,"  he  went  on,  after 
waiting  a  minute  or  two  for  her  reply,  while  they 
made  their  way  through  the  slush  and  mire.  "  I 
should  think  you  might  speak  to  me.  You  know 
they  're  like  my  own  people." 

"I  am  not  your  '  own  people.'  I'm  nobody's 
people,"  she  thought ;  but  she  only  said,  "  I  'm 
not,  though." 

"  Well,  I  've  always  felt  as  if  you  were,  any 
way,"  he  answered.  A  sort  of  sob  rose  in  Phoebe's 
throat.  She  had  always  trusted  Peyton  Edwards. 
He  had  seemed  more  like  a  friend  than  any  one 
else  in  her  new,  strange  home. 

"  I  've  had  a  lonely  time,"  she  said.  "  I  have  n't 
had  a  soul  to  speak  to  since  they  went  away." 

"  I  was  afraid  so.  I  've  thought  about  you  a 
great  deal,"  he  answered.  "I  've  just  come  from 
the  train,  for  it 's  been  bothering  me  all  day,  and  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  come  out  and  see  how  you 
were  getting  on." 


202  PHOEBE. 

"  You  did  n't  come  for  anything  else  ?  v 

"No." 

"  You  have  n't  heard  anything  ?  "  she  asked, 
with  a  suspicious  glance  at  his  face,  which  the 
corner  lamp  under  which  they  had  come  showed 
her. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  straightforwardly.  "  I 
sent  around  to  the  office  this  afternoon,  but  they 
said  there  was  no  news.  Barry  has  n't  written 
to  me  since  he  went  away." 

Phoebe  did  not  speak. 

"  I  suppose  Barry  '11  be  coming  home  pretty 
soon  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  He  '11  be  here  on  Thursday,"  she  said. 

"  Thursday  ?  Then  you  ought  n't  to  be  look 
ing  this  way." 

She  did  not  answer,  and  they  walked  on  for  the 
length  of  a  block  in  silence. 

"  Is  n't  he  well  ?  "  asked  Peyton,  at  last.  "  If 
there  's  any  trouble,  I  wish  you  'd  tell  me." 

"It's  my  trouble,"  she  answered.  "May  be 
you  would  n't  think  that  counted." 

"  I  do  think  it  counts.  I  've  thought  about  you 
a  great  deal.  I  felt  Barry  ought  not  to  have 
gone." 

"  Then  you  knew,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Knew  what  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it  was  n't  just  his  leaving  me  alone." 

"  Well,  that  was  all  I  blamed  him  for ;  the  baby 
being  so  little,  and  you  a  stranger  here,  and  —  and 


PEYTON  EDWARDS.  203 

. —  the  place  and  the  people  being  so— new  to 
you." 

"  I  understand.  Oh,  I  did  n't  mind  that.  As 
long  as  it  was  all  right  between  him  and  me  I 
could  stand  all  that." 

"  Well,  I  hope  it 's  all  right  now.  You  're  not 
the  kind  of  woman  to  fancy  things.  You  don't 
need  me  to  tell  you  how  Barry  feels  about  you." 

"  No,  I  don't  need  any  one  to  tell  me,"  she  said, 
between  her  teeth. 

Peyton  looked  anxiously  towards  her,  for  it 
crossed  his  mind  that  her  loneliness  might  have 
worn  upon  her  nerves  and  rendered  her  morbid,  if 
not  absolutely  unsound  mentally.  He  remembered 
how  young  her  baby  was,  and  how  much  of  a 
strain  there  had  been  upon  her  for  the  whole  past 
year.  Silent  and  unmistakably  manly  as  he  was, 
there  was  an  acute  understanding  in  him  of 
women's  sufferings,  and  an  acute  tenderness,  too, 
well  understood  by  the  little  girls  who  swept  the 
crossings  that  he  passed  daily,  and  the  women 
who  scrubbed  the  halls  and  stairways  of  the  down 
town  offices  which  he  frequented.  His  heart  was 
tolerably  hard  towards  men,  but  very  soft  towards 
women  who  were  "  down  on  their  luck."  And  it 
was  not  necessary  that  the  objects  of  his  sympathy 
should  be  good-looking  always,  either.  By  this 
time,  with  their  halting  slow  talk,  and  steady, 
though  rather  quick  walk,  these  two  people  who 
were  not  in  the  habit  of  talking  about  their  feel- 


204  PH(EBE. 

ings,  got  inside  the  gate,  and  well  on  towards  the 
house. 

"  You  think  I  'm  crazy,  I  suppose,"  said  Phoebe, 
abruptly,  as  they  approached  the  piazza  steps. 

"  No,  not  that  altogether,"  he  answered,  hesi 
tatingly,  for  it  was  so  exactly  what  he  had  been 
thinking  that  he  could  not  honestly  deny  it,  and 
he  had  not  the  readiness  to  dissemble. 

"  I  've  had  enough  to  make  me,"  she  said,  "  but 
I  don't  suppose  I  'm  the  kind  that  goes  crazy.  All 
along  I  have  been  blaming  myself  for  everything, 
but  now  I  know  I  have  been  badly  used." 

"Well,  I  can't  tell"— 

"  No,  I  know  you  can't.  I  did  n't  think  I  could 
ever  talk  to  anybody  about  such  a  thing  as  this. 
But  —  won't  you  ring  the  bell  ?  Mary  Ann  has 
locked  the  door." 

While  they  waited  for  the  opening  of  the  door 
they  stood  without  speaking,  Peyton  not  looking 
at  her,  but  with  silent,  deep  thoughts,  no  doubt, 
and  a  clouded  face.  When  Mary  Aim,  quite  out  of 
breath,  got  the  door  open,  Phoebe  walked  in  first, 
and  reproved  her  for  not  having  the  hall  lamp 
lighted.  Mary  Ann  always  had  a  good  reason 
to  give  for  what  she  did  and  what  she  omitted 
to  do.  It  was  the  baby  who  was  fretting,  and 
wouldn't  let  her  lay  him  down  a  minute,  ma'am. 
Phoebe  left  her  in  the  full  tide  of  her  explanations, 
and  shut  the  library  door,  and  so  cut  off  the 
stream. 


PEYTON  EDWARDS.  205 

The  library  fire  was  burning,  and  the  room 
looked  comfortable  by  its  blaze,  but  there  was 
no  lamp  lighted.  Phoebe  took  off  her  bonnet 
and  cloak  and  laid  them  on  a  chair  in  the  corner, 
then  went  to  a  jar  that  held  matches,  and,  stoop 
ing  down,  lighted  one  at  the  fire,  and  went  over 
to  the  lamp.  Peyton  sat  down.  He  did  not  look 
into  the  fire  or  about  the  room,  nor  did  he  follow 
with  his  eyes  the  movements  of  the  tall,  beautiful 
young  woman  whose  unknown  trouble  was  occu 
pying  all  his  thoughts,  but  stared  before  him  at 
nothing,  and  was  as  silent  as  a  Sphinx. 

Certainly  he  was  not  sympathetic  looking;  why 
did  Phoebe  and  the  scrub-women  and  the  cross 
ing  sweepers  pick  him  out  from  all  the  crowd  of 
handsomer,  more  genial,  more  amiable-looking 
men  ?  People  in  trouble  have  an  instinct  that 
rarely  leads  them  wrong.  When  Phoebe  had 
lighted  the  lamp  and  put  the  shade  on  it  and 
turned  it  carefully  to  the  right  height,  she  sat 
down,  too,  and  gazed  before  her  some  minutes 
without  speaking.  Her  hand  was  in  her  pocket, 
as  if  she  held  something  there  on  which  her 
thoughts  were  centred.  She  tried  to  speak  several 
times,  but  failed  ;  then  with  a  slow,  determined 
gesture  with  the  hand  that  lay  upon  the  arm  of 
her  chair,  she  said, — 

"I  'm  going  to  show  you  something  that  I  found 
to-day.  I  don't  believe  you  '11  think  me  crazy 
when  you  read  it.  I  suppose  you  know  the  writ- 


206  PHCEBE. 

ing;  perhaps  you  know  more  about  what's  past 
than  I  do.  It  isn't  new  to  me,  but  it 's  "  — 

Her  voice  choked.  She  pulled  the  envelope 
from  her  pocket,  and  taking  the  paper  out  of  it 
handed  it  to  him.  He  got  up  and  went  towards 
the  light  to  read  it.  The  writing  he  certainly 
recognized.  A  slight  flush  mounted  to  his  fore 
head,  but  faded  as  he  read.  In  fact,  he  turned  a 
stony  gray  ;  his  face  was  no  longer  expressionless 
and  neutral,  but  showed  that  he  was  enduring  a 
pain  sharp  enough  to  need  much  self-control. 
Phoebe  did  not  move  her  eyes  from  him,  but  with 
parted  lips  watched  the  effect  upon  him  of  what 
he  read.  A  look  of  satisfaction  came  into  her  eyes. 
It  was  not  imagination,  then.  Poor  Phosbe  had 
had  so  many  struggles  with  herself  against  doubts 
that  she  could  not  prove  that  it  was  in  a  certain 
sense  a  satisfaction  to  find  she  held  a  proof  that 
gave  so  much  pain  to  some  one  else.  Her  com 
panion  did  not  speak  for  some  minutes.  His  eyes 
went  over  and  over  the  words  before  him  ;  he 
seemed  to  hunt  for  escape  froni  some  most  painful 
conviction.  When  he  first  attempted  to  speak, 
his  voice  failed  ;  liis  failure  to  control  himself 
seemed  to  make  him  angry.  When  he  spoke 
again,  it  was  quite  distinctly. 

"Where  did  you  find  this  —  note?"  he  said, 
still  looking  at  it,  and  not  at  her. 

"  In  Barry's  desk,  that  I  was  putting  in  order." 

"  It  has  been  there  —  since  —  since  before  he 
went  away  ?  " 


PEYTON  EDWARDS.  207 

"  There  is  the  date  of  it,"  she  said,  getting  up 
and  giving  him  the  envelope. 

"You  don't  often  go  to  the  desk?"  he  asked, 
slowly,  after  a  few  moments'  pause. 

"  No,  never  before.  He  always  kept  it  locked. 
At  the  last  moment  the  day  he  was  going  away, 
there  was  great  hurry  and  confusion  ;  just  as  he 
was  locking  it,  while  they  were  calling  to  him  from 
down-stairs  to  come,  the  lock  broke  ;  he  had  to 
leave  it  or  be  left.  He  told  me  to  take  the  keys 
out  and  attend  to  it.  I  suppose  for  the  moment 
he  forgot  —  what  was  in  it  —  or  thought  I  would 
not  likely  look." 

There  was  a  silence.  Phoebe  sat  down  again, 
but  Peyton  stood  motionless,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
vacancy,  the  hand  with  the  letter  in  it  hanging  at 
his  side,  his  face  pallid. 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  the  past,"  she 
went  on  slowly,  at  last.  "I  don't  know  whether 
he  could  have  helped  that  part  of  it  or  not  —  but 
—  going  away  together  "  — 

"  The  envelope  was  not  sealed,"  he  said,  as  if 
he  had  not  heard  her,  looking  down  at  it. 

"  No ;  she  has  handed  it  to  him  some  time. 
They  were  together  every  day  ;  I  knew  that.  So 
many  nights  he  did  not  come  home.  And  this 
was  just  the  week  before  the  sudden  plan  to  go 
abroad.  I  never  knew  she  was  going  till  —  till 
that  last  day  at  dinner." 

Peyton  seemed  hardly  to  hear  her,  but  to  be 
carried  on  by  his  own  thoughts. 


208  PHCEBE. 

"  Damn  him  !  "  he  said,  suddenly,  under  his 
breath,  crushing  the  paper  that  he  held  in  his 
hand,  and  throwing  it  from  him. 

"  Damn  her ! "  said  Phoebe,  setting  her  lips  to 
gether  and  lifting  her  burning  eyes  to  his.  A 
shudder  passed  over  him  ;  he  walked  two  or  three 
times  across  the  room,  then  stopped  before  the 
mantelpiece  and  leaned  against  it. 

"  Don't  speak  so,"  he  began,  in  a  husky  voice. 
"  A  woman  ought  to  say  her  prayers  "  — 

"  I  shan't  say  any  prayers  for  her." 

"  Well,  she  needs  them  "  — 

"I  hope  she'll  need  them  more  and  more;  I 
hope"  — 

"  Hush,"  said  Peyton,  hoarsely,  lifting  his  head. 
Phoebe  and  he  looked  each  other  in  the  eyes  for  a 
moment ;  and  then  Phoebe,  with  a  sort  of  sigh 
that  was  half  a  groan,  leaned  back  in  her  chair 
and  looked  away  from  him.  It  was  a  bitter,  mis 
erable  consolation  to  know  that  some  one  else  was 
enduring  the  pain  that  she  was, — some  one 
stronger,  and  some  one  whom  she  had  respected. 
If  jealousy  and  the  wound  of  treachery  could 
make  his  face  so  ashy  and  his  eyes  so  fierce,  she 
need  not  feel  ashamed  for  herself.  She  got  up 
and  went  across  the  room  and  picked  up  the  paper 
that  he  had  thrown  from  him,  and  smoothed  it 
out  and  put  it  back  into  the  envelope. 

At  this  moment  Mary  Ann  rolled  back  the 
door  that  led  into  the  dining-room,  and  appeared 


PEYTON  EDWARDS.  209 

in  the  entrance  with  the  baby  under  her  arm,  an 
nouncing  tea.  At  this  interruption  the  two  who 
were  so  far  away  from  thoughts  of  commonplace 
comfort  or  discomfort  experienced  the  wholesome 
though  hateful  shock  of  recall  to  actual  life.  Pey 
ton's  first  impulse  was  to  go  away,  but  he  sub 
mitted  when  Phrebe  said,  "  You  'd  better  stay." 

They  went  to  the  table ;  it  was  as  small  as  it 
could  be  made,  but  was  still  far  too  large  for  the 
two  people  who  sat  down  to  it  and  the  slender 
meal  set  forth  upon  it.  Phosbe's  hands  shook  a 
little  as  she  poured  out  the  tea.  Peyton  set  down 
his  cup,  and  scarcely  tried  to  drink  it.  He  took 
some  things  to  eat  upon  his  plate,  but  did  not  eat 
them.  He  sat  looking  before  him  in  a  fixed  way, 
not  attempting  to  speak.  Mary  Ann  chirruped 
to  the  baby,  which  was  the  only  conversation  that 
enlivened  the  meal  except  the  apologies  which  she 
made  for  bringing  him  down-stairs.  He  just 
would  n't  go  to  sleep,  she  said,  and  it  was  the 
cook's  night  out,  and  tea  could  n't  be  kept  wait 
ing  any  longer.  It  may  have  surprised  her  that 
these  apologies  did  not  have  any  interest  •  for  Mr. 
Peyton  Edwards  or  her  mistress  ;  she  gradually 
grew  more  reticent,  and  chirruped  in  a  whisper 
to  the  baby  when  she  passed  him.  She  had  set 
him  down  on  the  sofa  and  barricaded  him  in  with 
pillows.  He  goo-ed  at  her  with  placid  interest, 
and  struck  .aimless  blows  upon  the  pillow  before 

him.     The  baby  in  his  wide  unconsciousness  and 
14 


210  PIHEBE. 

the  nurse  in  her  narrow  ignorance  made  a  strange 
contrast  to  the  two  others  of  the  partie  carr€e.f 
When  at  last  these  latter  moved  away  into  the  next 
room,  Mary  Ann  in  haste  clattered  the  tea  things 
off,  with  kind  consideration  for  the  cook's  outing. 
The  baby  set  up  a  little  whine  for  his  mother ; 
she  took  him  in  her  arms  and  walked  about  with 
him  for  quiet's  sake.  Mary  Ann,  with  more  apol 
ogies  and  more  whispered  chirrups,  went  off  to  her 
own  supper.  Peyton  stood  looking  into  the  fire 
as  if  there  was  no  one  in  the  room  beside  himself. 
Once  or  twice  he  started  as  if  to  speak,  but 
stopped,  walked  two  or  three  times  across  the 
room,  and  stood  again  beside  the  fire.  The  com 
mon-place  tea  and  Mary  Ann  had  turned  the  key 
on  his  utterance  and  on  Phcebe's,  and  they  could 
no  more  go  back  to  the  mental  attitude  of  the 
hour  before  than  they  could  make  it  six  o'clock 
instead  of  seven. 

The  baby  fell  asleep  uneasily,  and  lay  across 
his  mother's  knees,  a  heavy  weight.  Mary  Ann 
came  back  and  tiptoed  about  the  room,  not  to 
wake  him.  At  last  the  slender  meal  was  all  out 
of  sight,  the  windows  barred,  the  light  turned 
down,  and  the  large,  empty-looking  dining-room 
left  to  its  night's  repose.  Then  Mary  Ann,  with 
slightly  curious  glances,  came  into  the  library  iind 
held  out  her  arms  for  the  baby.  Phosbe  put  him 
in  them,  wrapped  his  blanket  round  him,  drew 
an  end  of  it  over  his  head,  and  opened  the  door 
for  her. 


PEYTON  EDWARDS.  211 

"  The  hall  is  cold :  be  quick,"  she  said. 

Mary  Ann  looked  back  furtively  -while  her  mis 
tress  was  closing  the  door;  she  wondered  what 
they  were  going  to  talk  about.  She  need  not 
have  wondered.  They  were  not  going  to  talk. 
After  a  while  Peyton  got  up  and  told  her  he  was 
going  ;  he  would  see  her  in  the  morning.  This 
was  a  relief  ;  it  would  be  easier  to  talk  to-morrow. 
After  he  was  gone  she  turned  down  the  lamp,  and 
drew  her  chair  close  to  the  fire,  and  sat  down  and 
bent  forward  towards  it  and  tried  to  warm  herself, 
for  she  was  strangely  cold.  She  began  to  think 
after  a  while  that  she  was  going  to  have  a  chill. 
All  that  wet  snow  in  the  churchyard  and  in  the 
streets  and  the  damp  night  air  and  her  terrible 
excitement  would  be  so  many  deadly  enemies  to 
the  poor  little  mortal  who  took  his  life  from  hers. 
The  baby,  —  she  almost  hated  him  as  she  got  up 
from  her  low  seat  and  went  to  find  some  medicine, 
and  a  shawl  to  wrap  herself  in.  She  was  denied 
even  the  luxury  of  brooding  over  her  trouble,  of 
desperately  risking  herself.  And  finally  came  the 
voice  of  Mary  Ann  :  the  child  would  not  sleep  ; 
there  simply  was  not  any  use  in  rocking  him ;  he 
just  would  not.  Then  setting  her  teeth  together 
she  followed  the  nurse  up-stairs,  and  spent  the 
first  night  of  her  great  desolation  with  a  fretting 
baby  in  her  arms,  and  spongia  and  aconite  in 
alternation  with  despair  and  jealousy. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

BARRY'S  RETURN. 

BUT  before  Thursday  the  baby  got  over  his 
croupish  attack,  and  Phoebe  was  not  seriously  the 
worse  for  her  chill.  They  were  well  endowed 
physically,  both  mother  and  child,  and  it  takes  a 
great  deal  of  mental  anguish  to  undermine  a  good 
country  constitution.  Phoebe  had  spent  nineteen 
years  in  a  fine  climate,  with  calm  and  uneventful 
days  alternating  still  and  peaceful  nights ;  she 
had  been  much  in  the  open  air ;  she  had  not  been 
idle  either  in  mind  or  body  ;  she  had  had  no  quar 
rel  with  her  simple  life,  but  had  been  happy  in  it. 
She  had  inherited  from  a  robust  father  fine  health 
and  power  of  endurance.  It  would  take  a  good 
many  months  of  such  nights  and  days  as  she  had 
just  passed  through  to  make  her  permanently  ill. 

Peyton  had  come  out  once  each  day  to  see  her. 
There  was  not  much  that  he  could  say,  but  he 
seemed  to  have  a  care  of  her,  and  she  clung  to 
him  in  thought  as  her  only  earthly  friend.  He 
telegraphed  on  Thursday  morning  to  her  that  the 
steamer  was  in,  and  again  that  the  passengers 
were  landed,  and  on  what  train  it  would  be  possi- 


BARRY'S  RETURN.  213 

ble  for  Barry  to  go  out  to  Marrowfat.  After 
tliis  came  a  telegram  from  Barry  himself,  saying 
at  what  hour  he  would  be  at  home.  So  there  was 
no  uncertainty  and  no  long  waiting. 

The  day  had  been  a  fine  and  clear  one ;  the  sun 
set  was  just  reddening  the  sky  and  bronzing  the 
bare  trees  and  the  brown  earth,  when  Phoebe 
from  the  library  window  saw  a  carriage  drive  into 
the  grounds.  She  held  the  child  tight  in  her 
arms  ;  her  breath  seemed  to  stop.  She  saw  Barry 
burst  open  the  door  of  the  cab  and  leap  out,  with 
an  eager  look  up  at  the  house.  She  tried  to  go 
forward  and  open  the  door,  but  there  are  some 
things  we  cannot  do,  even  if  we  try.  Barry  had 
to  open  the  door  for  himself,  which  no  doubt  was 
a  little  chill  to  his  enthusiasm.  In  the  hall,  by 
the  entrance  to  the  library,  stood  Phosbe,  white 
and  quiet,  with  the  baby  in  her  arms. 

"  Well !  "  he  cried,  with  eager  joyf  ulness,  dash 
ing  at  them  and  enfolding  them  in  one  embrace. 
He  kissed  Phoebe  again  and  again,  and  then  the 
baby,  and  then  Phosbe.  He  looked  brown  and 
well,  with  a  fine  ciolor  in  his  cheeks,  and  his  eyes 
dancing  with  pleasure.  You  could  not  fancy  a 
happier-looking  man  ;  so  handsome,  too,  in  his 
traveling  clothes,  so  distinguished,  so  broad  and 
high  and  manly.  "  Well !  You  are  n't  glad,  I  sup 
pose.!"  he  cried,  as  he  gave  her  another  kiss  and 
another. 

"  The   door,"  she   said,  faintly,  gathering   the 


214  PHCEBE. 

baby's  blanket  up  when  for  an  instant  he  released 
her.  "  I  am  afraid  he  '11  feel  the  air." 

Barry  turned  back  and  banged  the  door  shut  in 
the  driver's  face,  who  was  bringing  in  some  things 
that  had  been  left  in  the  carriage. 

"  Bother  the  man  !  he 's  got  to  be  paid,  I  sup 
pose,"  he  exclaimed,  plunging  his  hand  into  his 
pocket  and  tossing  him  a  coin  while  Phoebe  re 
treated  into  the  library.  He  did  not  wait  for  the 
change,  but  telling  the  man  to  leave  the  things  in 
the  hall,  he  followed  Phoebe  into  the  library,  and 
threw  his  arm  around  her. 

"  It's  rather  rough  on  a  fellow,"  he  said,  "not 
only  to  have  to  open  the  door  for  himself,  when 
he  's  come  a  journey  of  three  thousand  miles  to  see 
his  family,  but  to  be  told  the  first  thing  to  shut  it 
after  him.  But  no  matter  !  " 

"  Baby  's  had  a  threatening  of  croup,"  said 
Phoebe,  rather  huskily. 

"  He  has  ?  Bless  the  little  man,  he  does  n't 
look  it." 

He  caught  the  child  in  his  arms,  and  threw  him 
up,  and  looked  at  him  with  pride  and  pleasure, 
and  kissed  him  again  and  again.  "  There  is  n't 
another  child  as  handsome  in  the  world,"  he  said. 
"  And  he 's  grown  tremendously.  You  rascal,  sir, 
I  ought  to  have  brought  you  a  set  of  razors  and 
a  pair  of  riding-boots."  He  smothered  him  with 
kisses  after  this  flight  into  the  future,  and  then  he 
gave  him  back  to  his  mother,  and  put  his  arm 


BARRY'S  RETURN.  215 

around  her  waist,  and  drew  her  head  against  his 
shoulder,  as  if  it  were  she,  and  not  the  child,  af 
ter  all,  that  he  was  most  glad  to  have  again.  "  It 
seems  a  year,"  he  said  fondly,  "  since  I  went 
away."  Then  he  held  her  off  from  him  and  looked 
at  her.  "  But  you  're  not  looking  exactly  well," 
he  said.  "  You  're  pale." 

"Baby's  kept  me  awake,"  she  said,  evasively, 
looking  away. 

"  Why  do  you  let  him  ?  Turn  him  over  to 
Mary  Ann.  I  '11  set  all  that  right,"  and  he  took 
her  in  his  arms  again.  The  fact  that  she  was  hold 
ing  the  baby  made  some  excuse  for  his  not  having 
his  caresses  returned.  You  cannot  caress  a  person 
very  much  without  the  use  of  your  hands.  When, 
therefore,  Mary  Ann  appeared  shyly  in  the  door, 
Barry  hailed  her  with  a  bluff  greeting,  and  told 
her  to  take  the  baby  for  a  little  while. 

"  Don't  let  him  get  cold,"  he  added,  as  the  girl 
carried  him  away.  And  then  he  turned  to  Phoebe, 
and  with  his  arm  around  her  waist  and  both  her 
hands  pinioned  by  his  walked  towards  the  fire 
place,  where  a  gay  little  fire  was  crackling.  Phoebe 
had  grown  paler  and  paler.  This  was  infinitely 
worse  than  a  captious,  cold,  or  constrained  greet 
ing.  The  thought  of  its  falseness  never  left  her 
mind,  nor  the  conviction  of  his  nature's  shallow- 
ness  and  easiness.  It  was  such  a  cruel  travesty  of 
the  past ;  it  was  so  torturing  to  the  hunger  of  her 
heart.  It  takes  a  good  deal  of  cold  to  chill  the 


216  PIHEBE. 

circulation  of  some  people's  blood,  and  it  took  a 
good  deal  to  chill  the  circulation  of  Barry's  hope 
and  confidence,  but  by  and  by  he  began  to  feel 
indefinably  the  lowering  of  the  temperature.  He 
had  thrown  himself  into  a  chair  before  the  fire, 
and,  stretching  out  his  arm,  tried  to  pull  Phoebe 
down  upon  his  knee.  But  she  resisted,  standing 
back  by  the  mantel,  and  saying,  "  I  must  go  and 
see  about  baby." 

"  Well,"  he  cried,  in  a  tone  of  pique,  "  that 's 
pretty  soon  to  desert  me,  don't  you  think  ?" 

"Why,  you,"  she  said,  embarrassed,  "you'll 
want  to  go  up-staivs  yourself.  Don't  you  want  to 
wash  your  hands  before  dinner,  and  —  brush  your 
hair  a  little  ?  " 

"  What !  do  I  look  such  a  savage  ?  "  he  said,  with, 
the  confidence  of  a  handsome  man,  pushing  his 
hand  through  his  brown  hair.  He  got  up  and 
stood  beside  her,  close  to  her.  It  seemed  as  if  he 
could  not  keep  away  from  her,  cold  or  kind.  He 
began  to  look  about  for  some  explanation  of  her 
lack  of  warmth.  Perhaps  it  was  unprepared  ness. 
He  knew  she  was  reserved  and  undemonstrative  ; 
possibly  she  had  not  received  the  warning  of  his 
coming,  and  the  shock  to  her  nerves  of  his  sud 
den  appearance  might  account  for  her  pallor  and 
silence. 

"  Did  you  get  the  telegram  ?  "  he  said. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "The  last  one  just  an 
hour  ago." 


BARRY'S  RETURN.  217 

"  The  last  ?     Why,  I  only  sent  one." 

"  I  know  :  but  Peyton  Edwards  telegraphed  me 
after  he  went  away  this  morning  that  the  steamer 
was  in  the  bay,  and  then  later  that  you  had  prob 
ably  landed." 

"  Peyton  Edwards  ?  You  don't  say.  I  did  n't 
even  suppose  he  knew  that  I  was  on  the  way  home. 
I  wonder  that  he  did  n't  come  down  to  the  wharf 
to  meet  me." 

They  were  standing  before  the  fire,  which  had 
deepened  into  a  broad  blaze.  Barry  was  looking 
into  his  wife's  face  in  the  interested  way  in  which 
we  look  into  the  faces  of  those  from  whom  we  have 
been  parted  for  a  length  of  time.  As  he  said  these 
words,  carelessly,  scarcely  thinking  that  she  heard 
them  or  would  note  them,  a  sudden  rush  of  color 
came  over  her  face.  She  was  thinking,  "  When 
will  he  know  why  he  did  n't  go  to  meet  him  ?  " 
And  when  she  felt  the  hot  blush  on  her  face,  and 
saw  that  her  husband  was  startled  by  it,  her 
thought  was,  not  that  he  would  have  any  un 
worthy  suspicion  of  her  or  of  his  friend,  but  that 
he  would  in  it  read  the  truth.  She  felt  as  if  the 
story  were  printed  on  her  face,  and  forgot  (as  peo 
ple  unused  to  deception  often  do)  how  much  more 
she  knew  than  he  did.  The  blood  receded,  and  she 
grew  pale  again,  and  her  eyes  were  troubled  and 
downcast.  Barry  scrutinized  her  face  keenly  for  a 
moment.  Then  his  glance  brightened.  It  was  im 
possible  to  doubt  her  (or  his  own  empire,  either). 


218  PHCEBE. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  if  you  insist  on  my  ablutions, 
I  will  go  up  with  you." 

But  he  did  not  put  his  arm  about  her  again,  and 
he  went  up-stairs  after  her,  both  of  them  laden 
with  shawls  and  bags  and  books,  that  the  cabman 
had  left  in  the  hall,  and  that  the  flighty  Mary  Ann 
had  failed  even  to  lift  from  the  floor. 

"  Where  are  all  your  servants  ?  "  he  said,  on  the 
way  up. 

"  I  have  n't  got  any  but  the  cook,  and  she  's 
busy  with  the  dinner,  and  Mary  Ann  can't  leave 
the  baby." 

"  What 's  become  of  the  waitress  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  concluded  to  do  without  her." 

"  Why  this  parsimony  ?  " 

"  I  've  been  trying  to  economize." 

Barry  laughed  lightly.  "  Well,  we  won't  do 
any  more  of  that,"  he  said.  "  Affairs  are  march 
ing  very  well.  We  've  made  a  good  thing  of  it. 
Even  my  father  can't  find  anything  to  grumble  at, 
and  I  am  more  than  satisfied.  I  tell  you,  Phoebe, 
that  little  fellow  in  his  cradle  up-stairs  will  have  a 
better  start  hi  life,  a  good  deal,  than  his  father 
had." 

"  I  don't  think  you  had  much  to  complain  of." 

"  Oh,  there  are  starts  and  starts.  I  mean  the 
boy  shall  have  some  advantages  that  I  Ve  always 
felt  the  need  of." 

"  People  always  say  that." 

"  I  know :  but  it 's  well  for  the  race  to  go  on 
improving." 


BARRY'S  RETURN.  219 

"  Only  nobody  can  see  the  improvement.  The 
ones  that  don't  have  any  start  always  get  ahead." 

When  they  were  at  the  dinner-table  (it  had 
been  tea  when  she  was  alone ;  now  it  had  risen  to 
dinner,  and  was  served  in  courses  as  long  as  the 
baby  would  lie  still),  Barry  again  reverted  to  Pey 
ton  Edwards's  telegram,  and  with  similar  results. 

"  It  was  very  good-natured  in  him  to  see  about 
the  steamer  and  send  you  word,"  he  said,  —  "  very. 
I  must  look  him  up  to-morrow." 

Again  the  strange  color  and  pallor  and  agita 
tion  followed  each  other  on  Phoebe's  face.  Barry 
would  have  been  more  than  mortal  if  he  had  not 
felt  a  sudden  sharp  suspicion  cross  his  mind.  But 
he  was  a  man  of  the  world.  He  went  on  carelessly, 
with  no  change  in  his  voice :  — 

"  Has  he  been  out  lately  ?  " 

"  He  was  here  —  this  morning,"  returned  Pho3- 
be,  her  voice  gathering  strength,  for  this  was  not 
what  agitated  her. 

"  Ah  !  And  what  does  he  have  to  say  ?  What 
has  he  been  about  lately  ?  I  suppose  he  's  work 
ing  like  a  dog,  as  usual." 

"  No,  I  should  n't  think  so.  But  I  don't  know. 
He  would  n't  be  likely  to  talk  about  business  to 
me." 

The  thought  of  what  he  did  talk  about,  the 
only  thing  of  any  kind  regarding  which  they  had 
exchanged  a  word,  made  her  flush  guiltily  again. 
Would  Barry  see  it  all  ?  Would  he  ask  her  in  the 


220  PHCEBE, 

next  breath  how  she  dared  to  speak  to  another 
of  their  relations  to  each  other?  This  was  her 
thought  and  dread,  and  only  this. 

Barry  had  seen  enough  for  this  time.  He 
changed  the  subject,  and  went  into  details  of  his 
journey  and  accounts  of  the  family  party  left 
abroad.  His  mother  was  not  looking  well ;  travel 
ing  seemed  to  tire  her,  while  it  freshened  up  his 
father  wonderfully.  Honor  was  as  gay  as  a  bird  ; 
she  kept  them  all  in  fine  spirits,  was  admired  every 
where,  and  as  willful  as  ever.  She  declared  she 
never  would  come  home,  and  he  almost  believed 
she  would  keep  her  word.  She  hated  Marrowfat 
with  a  hate  unprecedented.  Lucy  was  sweet  and 
good  as  ever ;  mended  everybody's  gloves  as  well 
as  tempers,  carried  out  all  plans  but  her  own,  kept 
the  peace  between  Tartar  and  Aunt  David,  and 
was  the  good  fairy  of  the  party.  Plioebe  could  not 
find  voice  to  ask  any  questions ;  she  felt  as  if  she 
were  choking  while  Barry  talked  about  his  life  of 
the  past  two  months  so  easily  and  carelessly.  He 
grew  a  little  absent-minded  as  he  talked,  and  his 
brow  knit.  He  was  leading  back  to  the  subject 
which  was  uppermost  in  his  mind,  and  he  wished 
to  reach  it  naturally. 

"  By  the  way,  I  must  n't  forget,"  he  said. 
"  I  've  got  a  little  package  for  Peyton  from  Tartar. 
It's  in  my  valise,  I  think.  Help  me  to  remember 
it  in  the  morning.  I  '11  take  it  over  to  him." 

His  keen  and  angry  eyes  did  not  miss  a  shade 


BARRY'S  RETURN.  221 

of  the  change  that  came  over  her  face  at  these 
words.  She  did  not  attempt  to  look  up,  but  sat 
with  her  head  a  little  bent  down,  a  deadly,  sickly 
pallor  taking  the  place  of  her  ordinary  coloring. 
She  was  thinking  of  that  deep  imprecation,  that 
fierce  "  damn  him,"  that  Peyton  had  uttered  when 
he  first  discovered  Barry's  treason.  What  would 
their  meeting  be  ?  She  wished  that  she  had  died 
before  she  had  told  him  anything.  What  good 
was  his  sympathy  compared  with  all  this  peril  to 
Barry  and  to  him  ?  She  had  never  sinned  much 
in  giving  her  confidence  to  others  ;  why  should 
her  first  fault  of  unreserve  have  such  a  punish 
ment  ?  What  would  she  give  to  unsay  what  she 
had  said !  How  could  she  prevent  or  postpone 
this  meeting?  It  seemed  to  her  that  anything 
that  could  put  it  off  a  while  would  be  so  much 
•gained  ;  just  a  few  days  till  Peyton  should  have 
cooled  down  a  little.  Alas,  she  remembered  that 
people  like  Peyton  do  not  cool  down  ;  they  are  al 
ways  at  one  heat.  What  Peyton  meant  to  do  half 
an  hour  after  the  letter  was  in  his  hands  he  would 
go  on  meaning  to  do,  and  doing,  till  his  steady 
heart  stopped  beating.  He  would  always  be  good 
to  her ;  he  would  always  be  hard,  though  just,  to 
Tartar  ;  he  would  always  be  unrelenting  towards 
Barry.  Time  could  not  change  him  nor  years  wear 
out  his  first  impression.  Still,  she  wished  that  she 
could  hold  them  back  from  meeting:  her  hand 
was  feeble,  but  she  stretched  it  out  to  retard  the 
crash  a  moment  longer. 


222  PH(EBE. 

"Don't  fail  to  remind  me,"  he  said,  as  he 
dropped  the  stopper  in  a  decanter,  and  took  up  his 
glass. 

"  I  don't  know  —  but  I  think  —  that  is  —  I  be 
lieve  —  he  is  going  away  to-morrow  —  you  would 
n't  see  him  if  you  went "  — 

"  Oh,  I  '11  send  him  a  dispatch  to-night,  and  get 
him  to  wait  over  a  train.  It  would  be  too  bad  to 
miss  him.  I  wonder  where  he  's  going." 

"  I  think  it 's  —  Washington,  but  I  can't  be  sure. 
I  have  forgotten  what  he  said  about  it.  I  —  think 
he  goes  quite  early  in  the  morning." 

"  That  will  be  all  right.     He  '11  wait  for  me." 

Barry's  tone  was  generally  confident ;  this  time 
it  was  a  little  more  than  confident.  Phoebe  knew 
that  he  was  angry  ;  all  his  good  spirits  and  vi 
vacious  talk  could  not  conceal  it.  There  was  no 
more  warmth,  and  there  were  no  more  caresses  re 
ceived  or  rebuffed.  The  baby  gave  a  rough,  bark 
ing  cough,  and  she  had  to  go  in  haste  up-stairs 
with  him.  Barry  was  left  to  spend  his  first  even 
ing  at  home  alone.  He  walked  up  and  down  the 
room,  pulling  at  his  mustache,  and  drawing  his 
brows  together  in  perplexed  thought.  He  was  not 
of  a  suspicious  or  unloving  nature  ;  it  was  hard  for 
him  to  make  up  his  mind  that  he  had  ground  of 
complaint  against  either  wife  or  friend.  But  this 
looked  so  amazingly  like  it.  When  he  went  away, 
Phoebe  and  Peyton  had  not  been  on  any  terms  of 
intimacy  that  would  have  made  it  seem  probable 


BARRY'S  RETURN.  223 

that  lie  would  come  out  to  Marrowfat  to  see  her. 
They  had  not  met  more  than  half  a  dozen  times  ; 
the  last  year  there  had  been  a  great  diminution  of: 
the  frequent  visits  of  the  old  days.  Perhaps  he  had 
come  out  to  see  some  one  else  in  the  place,  and  had 
only  called  at  the  house  in  passing.  No  :  Barry 
ran  over  in  his  mind  all  the  people  whom  he  could 
have  had  occasion  to  come  to  see ;  they  were  all 
away.  He  had  not  an  intimate  friend  in  Marrow 
fat.  Barry  remembered  once,  just  before  they 
went  abroad,  Peyton,  in  speaking  of  the  dullness 
of  the  winter  and  of  the  changes  in  the  place,  said 
he  had  not  a  friend  left  there  but  themselves.  It 
would  have  been  difficult  to  account  for  even  one 
visit,  but  there  had  been  many.  Two  telegrams, 
after  having  seen  her  this  morning  !  And  no  word 
to  him  ;  not  even  a  clerk  sent  down  to  the  steamer 
to  get  his  news,  if  it  were  impossible  for  Peyton 
to  go  himself.  But  all  this,  all  Peyton's  part, 
could  have  been  easily  remanded  to  that  deep 
vault  of  unclaimed  property,  of  unexplained  omis 
sions,  that  all  generous-minded  people  keep  open 
all  their  lives,  and  never  trouble  themselves  to  de 
scend  into  unless  at  the  request  of  some  anxious 
owner.  "  Always  trust  your  friend "  had  been 
Barry's  maxim  through  life,  and  he  had  been  per 
fectly  satisfied  to  follow  it.  But  a  wife  is  a  differ 
ent  thing.  She  belongs  to  you,  while  your  friend 
belongs,  perhaps  equally,  to  a  great  many  others. 
While  you  know  she  has  no  material  rights  that 


224  PHCEBE. 

are  not  subordinate  to  your  right  over  her,  there 
is  a  vague  uncertainty  about  your  title  to  her  in 
ner  life  that  naturally  makes  you  less  easy  than 
if  you  held  it  in  fee  simple.     If  any  one  had  told 
Barry  yesterday  that  he  would  to-day  be  doubt 
ing  his  wife's  unquestioning  devotion  to  him,  he 
would  have  been  much  amused.     But  this  cold 
ness,  those  hot  blushes,  that  mysterious  agitation 
and  eagerness  to  prevent  a  meeting, — how  could 
they  be  explained  ?     Barry  would  have  been  more 
than  mortal  if  he  had  not  been  suspicious,  and  lie 
certainly  was  not  more  than  mortal,  not  any  more. 
The  evening  was  not  a  pleasant  one  to  him. 
The  last  eight  or  ten,  when  he  had  been  seasick 
and  bored  and  chilly,  were  agreeable  in  compari 
son.     He  wrote  his  dispatch,  but  when  it  came  to 
sending  it  found  himself  at  a  loss  for  the  direction. 
He  knew  that  Peyton  had  changed  his  hotel ;  he 
was  just  doing  so  when  they  went  away.     What 
one  had  been  decided  on  he  had  never  known,  or 
had  forgotten.     It  was  useless  to  send  his  dispatch 
to  Peyton's  office.     He  could  himself  get  there  in 
the  morning  before  it;  if  Peyton  had  gone  it  would 
do  no  good  ;  if  he  were  there  he  could  better  judge 
what  ground  he  had  for  complaint  if  he  met  him 
without   preparation.     As   for  asking  Phoebe  for 
the  address,  he  could  more  easily  have  done  a  much 
more  difficult  thing.      Though  good-natured  and 
genial,  he  was  as  reserved  in  one  sense  as  Phcebe 
herself.     He  could  not  talk  about  what  he  felt, 


BARRY'S  RETURN.  225 

though  he  could  talk  endlessly  about  what  he  did 
not  feel.  He  did  feel  this  unexpected  doubt  most 
uncomfortably  ;  in  fact,  most  damnably,  he  admit 
ted  to  himself.  He  could  no  more  have  gone  up 
stairs  and  opened  the  subject  with  her  or  spoken 
Peyton's  name  than  he  could  have  taken  her 
by  the  throat  and  made  an  end  of  it  and  of  her 
on  the  spot.  He  was  unprepared  for  either  step. 
So  he  went  up  at  bedtime,  and  scarcely  looked  at 
her  when  she  came  into  the  room  and  told  him 
that  she  had  known  he  would  not  want  to  be  dis 
turbed,  and  so  had  had  the  baby's  crib  moved  into 
the  adjoining  room,  where  she  would  probably 
have  to  sit  np  and  watch  him  through  the  night. 
His  hoarseness  had  increased,  but  she  was  giving 
him  very  frequent  doses  ;  if  before  midnight  it  did 
not  yield  to  treatment,  she  thought  they  ought  to 
have  the  doctor.  Did  he  think  so  ? 

He  thought  she  knew  much  more  about  the 
matter  than  he  did,  he  said,  and  he  should  be  sat 
isfied  with  whatever  she  decided,  unpacking  his 
valise,  with  his  back  turned  to  her  while  he  did 
it.  He  had  the  conviction  that  the  baby's  illness 
was  merely  her  defense  against  him,  and  he  was 
quite  resolved  not  to  take  any  notice  of  it. 

"  I  will  send  the  cook  and  Mary  Ann,  if  I  have 
to  send.  I  know  I  ought  not  to  disturb  you." 

He  said,  coolly,  perhaps  that  would  be  as  well ; 
he  was  pretty  tired.  Disturb  him  !  He  wondered 
if  she  did  not  think  she  had  disturbed  him  enough 
15 


226 

already.  He  counted  all  the  hours  strike  till  five 
o'clock,  when  he  dropped  into  an  uneasy  sleep, 
during  which  he  successively  fought  a  duel  with 
Peyton  and  suffered  shipwreck  in  mid-Atlantic. 
Out  of  this  he  was  awakened  by  Phoebe's  muffled 
opening  of  her  wardrobe  door  at  eight  o'clock. 
He  said  something  very  cross,  and  did  not  even 
ask  how  the  baby  was.  Phoabe  took  what  she  had 
come  in  for  and  went  out,  telling  him,  when  she 
got  outside  the  door,  to  ring  when  he  was  ready 
to  have  his  breakfast  put  upon  the  table. 

When  he  came  down  to  the  dining-room  he 
found  her  there,  ready  to  pour  out  his  coffee. 
This  soothed  him  a  little :  a  man  is  always  the 
happier  for  feeling  he  is  being  served  by  the 
woman  whom  he  ought  to  be  serving.  He  showed 
his  ameliorated  state  of  feeling  by  asking  how  the 
baby  was.  The  baby  was  better  ;  she  had  not 
had  to  send  for  the  doctor.  As  if  that  were  any 
news  to  him,  who  could  hear  the  lightest  move 
ment  in  the  room  adjoining,  and  who  knew  per 
fectly  well  that  the  baby  had  not  even  coughed 
since  half-past  ten  o'clock !  It  was  all  a  put-up 
job,  that  croup,  and  he  hardened  again  as  he 
thought  of  it. 

He  hurried  off  in  the  9.15  train,  feeling  hot  and 
angry  when  he  thought  how  certainly  he  should 
miss  Peyton  if  he  were  really  going  to  Wash 
ington,  and  how  long  it  would  be  before  he  could 
have  any  definite  light  shed  on  what  disturbed  him. 


BARRY'S  RETURN.  227 

To  think  of  bearing  this  suspense  for  a  week  or  a 
fortnight  put  him  in  a  very  bad  humor.  He  knew 
himself  capable  of  behaving  as  well  as  any  other 
man  in  this  position,  if  the  uncertainty  were  not 
too  protracted.  Now,  by  daylight,  he  said  t«  him 
self,  he  did  not  suppose  that  there  really  was  any 
thing  for  him  to  resent  in  their  relations  to  each 
other.  He  was  disposed  to  be  reasonable.  He 
knew  that  he  had  left  Phoebe  alone  for  a  long 
time  and  under  rather  trying  circumstances.  He 
must  not  wonder  if  Peyton  had  had  some  non 
sensical  views  about  protecting  her,  and  all  that. 
It  could  not  be  anything  but  duty  ;  it  was  impossi 
ble  (by  daylight)  to  associate  Peyton  with  any 
thing  but  a  stolid  pursuit  of  the  "  stern  daughter." 
And  Phoebe,  perhaps,  had  not  understood  him; 
was  embarrassed,  frightened.  It  was  equally  im 
possible  to  think  of  Phoebe  as  anything  but  — 
perfectly  devoted  to  him. 

On  the  cars  he  was  at  once  surrounded  by  gentle 
men  glad  to  welcome  him  back.  Some  newspaper 
paragraphs  about  the  success  of  the  business  inter 
ests  that  had  taken  Mr.  Crittenden  abroad  may 
possibly  have  contributed  to  this  welcome.  There 
is  a  great  deal  of  human  nature  even  in  the 
provinces  ;  the  Crittendens  were  rising  into  notice 
again.  Mr.  Crittenden  was  a  good  deal  spoken  of 
among  railroad  men.  It  would  be  his  own  fault 
if  he  did  not  make  a  good  deal  of  money  in  the 
course  of  the  next  few  months.  So  Barry  was 


228  PHCEBE. 

slapped  on  the  shoulder  and  shaken  by  the  hand, 
and  familiarly  welcomed  by  all  the  solid  9.15  men 
on  the  train.  It  made  him  feel  quite  like  his  old 
self.  He  was  not  so  stupid  as  not  to  see  why 
the  tide  had  turned,  but  as  long  as  it  had  turned, 
why,  that  was  enough.  He  was  too  good-natured 
to  be  critical.  Human  nature  is  human  nature  ; 
he  would  not  exactly  forget  the  past,  but  he 
would  not  rake  it  up.  Hie  jacet :  he  would  per 
haps  keep  the  moss  scraped  from  the  stone,  but 
he  would  not  do  anything  so  unhandsome  as  to 
go  below  the  surface  and  dig  among  the  bones ; 
he  knew  they  were  there,  but  there  let  them  lie. 
The  experience  had  done  him  good ;  it  was  incor 
porated  into  his  life ;  he  had  got  all  out  of  it  that 
it  could  give  him,  —  that  was  enough.  Such  was 
Barry's  easy  philosophy,  and  so  he  met  the  wel 
come  cheerfully  and  with  his  old  jolly  freedom  of 
manner. 

The  9.15  train  is  the  banker,  the  head-of-the- 
house,  the  out-of-business-looking-af  ter-investments- 
man's  train.  These  gray-beards  are  not  always  the 
dfscreetest.  Among  them  was  one  who  never 
thought  of  Barry  but  as  the  possessor  of  the  hand 
somest  wife  in  Marrowfat  or  a  much  more  extend 
ed  district.  To  do  him  justice,  he  seldom  thought 
of  him  or  her  at  all,  but  when  he  did  it  was  in 
this  relative  position  and  in  this  light. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  said,  leaning  towards  him  from  the 
seat  behind  and  speaking  in  his  ear,  "you  were  a 


BARRY'S  RETURN.  229 

brave  man  to  go  away  and  leave  your  handsome 
wife  alone  ! " 

He  did  not  speak  so  low  but  that  another  el 
derly  person  of  valor,  sitting  beside  Barry,  heard 
him,  and  added  jocosely,  "Mason  thinks  you'd 
better  leave  her  in  his  charge,  next  time.  We 
old  fellows  are  much  more  responsible  than  these 
younger  ones.  Now  I  can  recommend  Mason,  and 
Mason  can  recommend  me,  eh  ?  " 

And  then  they  both  laughed,  a  senile  laugh, 
that  sent  Barry  into  a  hot  rage  of  resentment  and 
jealousy.  It  was  a  perfectly  random  shot.  Neither 
of  them  had  probably  seen  Phoebe  during  her 
husband's  absence,  and  had  not  thought  of  her 
after  the  little  local  gossip  about  her  being  left 
alone  had  subsided.  It  was  in  very  questionable 
taste  to  speak  of  her  in  this  way  to  her  husband, 
but  good  taste  does  not  seem  the  natural  result  of 
advanced  age  in  men,  and  in  men  living  in  the 
country  especially.  Barry  flushed  so  perceptibly 
that  they  both  saw  he  was  annoyed.  The  conver 
sation  was  abruptly  turned  upon  something  else. 
In  a  moment  more  the  express  train  had  drawn 
breath  in  the  depot,  and  bankers  and  book-agents, 
lawyers  and  laundresses,  had  made  a  rush-and- 
tumble  exit,  and  were  plunging  pell-mell  to  the 
ferry-boats. 

Naturally  Barry  got  rid  of  his  aged  neighbors ; 
but  the  new  deal  did  not  help  him  very  much. 
He  was  joined  on  the  ferry-boat  by  a  couple  of 


230  PIKEBE. 

young  men,  who,  having  been  at  a  german  the 
night  before,  were  rather  late  in  getting  down  to 
business.  They  greeted  him  cordially. 

"  You  've  been  back  a  week  or  two,  have  n't 
you  ?  No  ?  I  Ve  seen  Edwards  on  the  train  sev 
eral  times,  and  I  thought  he  was  going  up  to  see 
you." 

And  a  look  of  well-bred  inquiry.  The  look  was 
perfectly  accidental,  but  of  course  Barry  thought 
it  was  a  studied  insult.  His  young  friends  found 
him  so  stiff  and  irresponsive  that  they  moved 
away,  and  agreed  between  themselves  that  foreign 
travel  had  not  improved  his  manners. 

Barry  hurried  to  Peyton's  office.  Phoebe  was 
quite  right.  He  had  gone  away  in  the  eleven 
o'clock  train  for  Washington-;  stay  indefinite,  ob 
ject  unexplained.  Barry  made  sharp  and  not  very 
civil  inquiries  of  Peyton's  confidential  clerk.  The 
young  man,  not  pleased  with  his  manner,  answered 
more  unsatisfactorily  than  he  would  have  done  if 
he  had  been  spoken  to  with  greater  suavity.  The 
impression  Barry  got  from  him  was  that  the 
journey  was  a  mysterious  one ;  it  looked  more 
like  a  flight  than  a  journey,  to  his  jaundiced  eyes. 
The  clerk  admitted  that  there  was  a  possibility 
that  Mr.  Edwards  might  be  gone  for  weeks  or 
even  months.  This,  to  any  one  who  knew  Pey 
ton's  business  habits,  was  astounding  news.  Barry 
was  not  to  be  blamed  for  feeling  it  meant  a  great 
deal.  He  wanted  to  knock  the  clerk  down  for 


BARRY'S  RETURN.  231 

giving  him  such  intelligence  and  for  having  such 
cold  blue  eyes  ;  but  they  were  not  quite  valid  ex 
cuses  for  doing  so,  and  he  went  away  with  a  curt 
snarl  that  made  the  man's  cold  blue  eyes  flame 
fire,  as  he  looked  after  him. 

Once  in  his  own  office,  the  press  of  business 
after  such  an  absence  drew  him  away  from  him 
self.  He  spent  four  hours  in  close  and  engrossing 
consultation  with  men  who  had  been  awaiting  his 
return  with  anxiety.  Large  interests  were  at 
stake,  and  Barry  found  himself  lifted  into  a  place 
of  unusual  authority  for  one  of  his  years.  It 
stimulated  him,  naturally.  He  felt  himself  equal 
to  it,  and  knew  his  business  life  was  opening  up 
great  vistas  of  promise.  A  healthy,  honorable 
ambition  stirred  in  him.  For  four  hours  he  forgot 
Phoebe  and  his  paltry  jealousy  ;  forgot  everything 
but  the  work  for  which  his  powers  were  expand 
ing.  It  was  not  until  he  neared  home  in  the  fast- 
flying  train  that  the  morning's  doubts  reasserted 
themselves,  —  still  in  a  modified  way.  He  was 
somewhat  ashamed  to  remember  them,  but  they 
came  upon  him  with  little  sickening  rushes  of  con 
jecture,  and  then  died  away,  and  then  came  on 
again.  He  felt  as  if  he  could  almost  hear  the  little 
devils  spitting  and  hissing  in  his  ears.  He  grew 
more  and  more  irritated  by  his  return  to  such  low 
vexations,  when  he  remembered  Wall  Street  and 
his  life,  there.  He  resolved  to  think  of  that  ex 
clusively,  and  to  let  his  life  at  home  shape  itself  as 


232  PHCEBE. 

it  would.  He  would  not  prejudge  any  one.  He 
would  give  Phoebe  a  fair  chance  to  show  herself 
an  affectionate  and  dutiful  wife.  If  she  did  not, 
it  was  time  enough  then  to  look  into  matters.  As 
long  as  he  could  keep  his  temper  everything  else 
would  keep.  And  he  resolved  to  keep  it.  There 
was  no  hurry. 

He  found  Phosbe  quiet  and  undemonstrative,  as 
the  day  before.  She  looked  even  paler,  but  she 
was  not  as  agitated.  Something  seemed  to  have 
reassured  her.  A  gay  little  devil  pierced  Barry's 
ear  with  the  whisper  that  she  had  had  the  in 
telligence  that  he  and  Peyton  had  not  met.  The 
conversation  between  the  two  was  rather  forced 
at  dinner.  After  it,  one  or  two  people  came  in 
on  business.  Phoebe  went  up  to  the  baby,  and 
did  not  come  down  again.  When  Barry,  at  ten 
o'clock,  went  to  his  room  he  found  that  the  baby 
had  developed  a  little  hoarseness,  and  Phosbe  in 
her  wrapper  was  anxiously  bending  over  him.  His 
crib  was  still  in  the  adjoining  room,  and  he  was 
wide  awake.  Mary  Ann  was  sleepily  making  the 
last  arrangements  for  the  night,  and  went  away 
•  asking  if  there  was  anything  more  wanted  in  so 
tired  a  tone  that  only  a  brute  could  have  had  the 
heart  to  keep  her  up  any  longer. 

"  Why  don't  you  call  that  girl  back  and  let  her 
take  him  ?  "  asked  Barry,  as  he  saw  his  wife  move 
an  easy-chair  up  to  the  crib  and  sink  down  in  it. 

"She  is  half  asleep  already;  what  would  she  be 


BARRY'S  RETURN.  233 

by  two  o'clock  ?  "  answered  Phcebe,  leaning  her 
head  back  wearily  and  putting  her  hand  through 
the  crib  rails  to  pat  the  baby. 

"  It 's  all  nonsense,  this  sitting  up  to  watch  him. 
He  has  no  more  croup  than  I  have,  and  you  are 
only  injuring  him  by  all  this  coddling.  It  is  sim 
ple  mismanagement,  and  you  will  soon  have  your 
hands  full  if  you  don't  make  up  your  mind  not  to 
spoil  him  so." 

The  undermining  the  principles  of  a  baby  of 
three  months  made  Phoebe's  lip  curl,  but  she  did 
not  reply,  and  softly  pushed  shut  the  door  with 
her  foot  after  Barry's  exit,  which  was  final  for  the 
night. 

The  baby  did  not  have  croup,  nor  even  any 
more  hoarseness,  but  he  lay  awake  a  long  time 
and  looked  at  his  mother  with  much  interest.  At 
last  he  slept ;  then  she  crept  to  the  sofa  and  cov 
ered  herself  with  a  shawl,  and  went  to  sleep  too. 
Healthy  people  cannot  stay  awake  continuously, 
even  if  they  are  in  trouble.  Barry  probably  slept 
also,  but  he  got  up  in  a  bad  humor,  and  came 
down  to  breakfast  later  than  he  had  meant  to 
come.  He  would  again  have  to  take  the  9.15 
train,  and  it  would  be  the  loss  of  an  hour  in  Wall 
Street,  which  he  did  not  like.  He  rather  longed 
to  be  in  Wall  Street  again,  to  get  out  of  himself 
and  his  fretting  doubts. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

A  BUTTON   OFF. 

IN  the  dining-room  Phoebe  was  waiting  for  him. 
She  sat  by  the  fire  reading  the  paper,  but  when 
he  came  in  she  got  up  without  speaking  and  went 
across  the  room  to  ring  the  bell.  The  cook 
brought  the  breakfast,  but  Phcebe  put  it  upon 
the  table  herself,  moving  about  the  room  silently. 
Barry  was  not  in  the  habit  of  thinking  of  her 
beauty,  but  he  furtively  studied  it  now  while  he 
pretended  to  read  his  paper.  He  could  see  what 
those  old  duffers  meant ;  she  was  very  different 
from  ordinary  women.  He  thought  at  that  mo 
ment  he  would  have  preferred  a  wife  who  would 
have  commanded  less  general  attention.  But  out 
of  humor  as  he  was,  he  was  just  enough  to  remem 
ber  that  it  was  not  her  fault  that  she  was  striking- 
looking,  and  that  he  must  put  her  standing  with 
the  old  duffers  out  of  the  question  and  confine 
himself  to  her  relations  with  Peyton,  which  was 
his  only  quarrel  with  her  at  the  present  moment. 

Breakfast  was  very  quiet.  Mai'y  Ann  had  been 
left  tip-stairs  with  the  bal^,  and  the  cook  drew 
the  line  of  her  concessions  at  waiting  on  the  table, 


A  BUTTON  OFF.  235 

so  Phoebe  quietly  left  her  seat  and  changed  Barry's 
plate  for  him,  and  got  h.im  hot  cakes  from  the 
pantry,  where  the  cook  had  brought  them,  and 
"  waited  "  upon  him  without  any  sense  of  degra 
dation.  It  was  what  she  had  been  used  to  doing 
all  her  life  at  home,  besides  cooking  the  breakfast 
and  sometimes  making  the  fire  when  the  "  hired 
man  "  overslept,  and  it  was  in  no  way  a  trial  to 
her. 

But  in  his  present  condition  of  ill-humor  it  was 
gall  and  wormwood  to  Barry  to  see  her  doing  it, 
and  being  reminded  of  the  different  social  place 
which  she  had  occupied.  It  seemed  to  make  all 
his  doubts  possible  to  recall  the  past.  He  rather 
curtly  told  her  he  wished  she  would  engage  an 
other  servant  at  once,  and  have  things  a  little  "  in 
order."  She  said,  "  Very  well,"  and  flushed  pain 
fully.  It  was  difficult  to  imagine  things  in  better 
order  than  they  were,  except  in  the  matter  of 
service.  Probably  no  man  in  Marrowfat  had  sat 
down  to  a  better  breakfast  or  a  daintier  looking 
table.  The  whole  house  was  a  miracle  of  neat 
ness.  Phoebe  had  only  this  outlet  for  her  rest 
less  misery.  She  had  not  allowed  herself  an  hour 
of  idleness  yesterday,  she  had  promised  herself 
this  solace  again  to-day  ;  she  literally  could  not 
sit  still  and  think.  Now  she  must  go  out  and  get 
another  servant,  who  would  take  this  occupation 
away  from  her.  There  was  no  longer  any  need 
for  economy,  if  what  Barry  had  told  her  was  true. 


236  PHCEBE. 

She  wished  it  were  not  true.  All  the  good  that 
she  could  possibly  have  been  to  him  was  wasted 
if  he  were  to  be  rich. 

After  breakfast  Barry  went  into  the  hall  and 
brought  in  his  ulster :  a  button  had  come  off.  He 
hesitated  to  ask  Phoebe  to  do  anything  for  him  in 
his  present  humor,  but  he  said,  "  I  wish  you  'd  tell 
Mary  Ann  to  put  this  button  on  at  once." 

She  took  the  coat  and  went  into  the  library, 
and  from  a  corner  closet  took  out  her  work-basket 
and  opened  it. 

"  You  '11  have  to  hurry,"  he  said,  ungraciously, 
following  her. 

She  evidently  meant  to,  for  her  ringers  shook  a 
little  as  she  hunted  for  the  thread  and  thimble. 
The  black  thread  she  wanted  was  not  there  :  she 
laid  down  the  coat,  and  went  quickly  up-stairs  to 
get  it.  Barry  glanced  at  the  clock  and  saw  there 
was  plenty  of  time.  He  knew  that  she  would 
hurry.  He  walked  uneasily  around  the  room. 
His  eye  fell  on  the  open  work-basket  which  she 
had  left.  A  letter  lay  face  downward  in  it.  He 
gave  it  a  snip  with  his  fingers  and  turned  it  over. 
His  heart  seemed  to  turn  over  sharply  as  he  saw 
the  writing.  It  was  Peyton's,  and  the  letter  was 
addressed  to  Phoebe.  The  clerk  in  the  post-office 
must  have  been  in  the  devil's  employ,  for  the  clear 
stamp  on  it  glared  up  in  his  very  face.  There 
was  no  ambiguity.  It  was  mailed  in  the  city, 
Station  A,  at  ten  o'clock  the  day  before ;  the 


A  BUTTON  OFF.  237 

last  thing  Peyton  did,  probably,  before  be  took  the 
eleven  o'clock  limited  express  for  Washington. 
Barry  did  not  touch  the  letter  after  he  turned  it 
over  with  his  finger.  He  stood  and  looked  at  it 
till  he  heard  Phoebe's  step  on  the  stair,  and  then 
he  turned  his  back  and  looked  out  of  the  window. 
She  hurriedly  entered,  and  he  heard  her  swift 
needle  drawn  in  and  out  of  the  coat.  But  he 
heard  something  else.  He  heard  her  crush  down 
the  lid  on  her  basket.  That  roused  the  dumb 
devil  in  him  into  speech.  He  turned  to  her  just 
as,  having  fastened  and  cut  the  thread,  she  held 

the  coat  out  to  him.     His  eve  fell  on  the  basket ; 

"  * . 

it  was  covered,  and  she  had  pushed  it,  accidentally 

or  otherwise,  a  little  out  of  sight. 

"  I  see  you  are  corresponding  with  Peyton  Ed 
wards,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  ask  any  explanation, 
but  I  leave  you  to  judge  whether  it  would  be  wise 
to  offer  one." 

He  paused  and  stood  looking  at  her,  a  dark  fury 
in  his  eye.  She  did  not  raise  her  eyes  nor  at 
tempt  to  speak. 

"  I  don't  ask  an  explanation,"  he  said,  slowly, 
"  because  between  husband  and  wife,  in  ordinary 
circumstances,  it  would  be  an  insult.  But  I  sup 
pose  one  would  hardly  say  that  our  circumstances 
are  ordinary.  I  don't  think  that  a  woman  who 
has  once  given  the  world  ground  to  doubt  her  dis 
cretion  can  complain  if  she  is  warned  to  be  at 
least  decently  careful  in  her  conduct." 


238  PHCEBE. 

With  this  stab  he  turned  and  left  the  room. 
The  hat-stand  was  just  outside  the  door.  He  did 
not  omit  because  of  his  wrath  to  brush  his  hat, 
select  his  cane,  take  out  his  gloves.  Not  a  sound 
came  from  within.  He  was  too  furiously  angry  to 
trust  himself  to  glance  back.  He  held  the  hall- 
door  open  for  an  instant,  said,  "  You  need  not  wait 
dinner  for  me  to-night,"  shut  it  sharply,  and  was 
gone. 

If  he  had  looked  back,  he  might  not  have  gone 
so  quickly.  Even  very  healthy  people  can  come 
pretty  near  fainting  when  they  are  stabbed  deep 
enough.  The  poor  young  woman's  face  turned 
ashy  white.  She  leaned  back  in  the  chair  in 
which  she  had  been  sitting  upright.  It  is  doubt 
ful  whether  for  a  few  moments  she  knew  clearly 
what  had  happened.  It  was  a  whole  half  hour 
before  she  got  up  from  her  chair,  and  seemed 
to  try  her  strength  by  walking  once  or  twice 
across  the  floor.  She  sat  down  again,  evidently 
waiting  for  the  physical  ability  to  clo  what  her 
not-baffled  mind  proposed.  It  was  not  long  in  re 
turning  to  her.  She  had  appai'ently  been  coming 
to  some  decision,  which  was  stimulated  by  a  glance 
at  the  clock.  She  got  up,  took  her  work-basket, 
one  or  two  books  that  lay  on  the  table,  and  glanced 
around  the  room  in  search  of  something  else  she 
wanted.  She  rang  the  bell,  and  the  cook  came. 

"Mary  Ann's  forever  about  coming  down  to 
her  breakfast,"  said  this  functionary,  out  of  humor. 


A  BUTTON  OFF.  239 

"  Yes,"  said  Phoebe,  whose  voice  sounded  as  if 
she  had  not  used  it  for  a  good  while.  "  I  am  going 
up-stairs,  and  I  '11  send  her  down  to  you.  It 's  my 
fault.  When  she  comes,  help  her  bring  up  the 
smallest  of  the  two  trunks  that  stand  near  the 
door  of  the  lumber  room.  I  am  going  away  rather 
suddenly,  and  shall  have  to  take  her  with  me. 
You  will  have  to  get  along  for  a  day  or  so  alone. 
There  won't  be  any  dinner  to  get  to-night.  You 
may  give  me  my  luncheon  at  half-past  twelve. 
Don't  let  Mary  Ann  waste  any  time  down-stairs." 

The  sudden  marching  orders  delighted  Mary 
Ann,  and  were  not  unpleasing  even  to  the  cook, 
who  loved  a  return  to  her  ancient  solitary  reign 
occasionally.  Phoebe  locked  herself  into  her  room. 
The  baby  slept.  With  swift  hands  she  assorted 
the  contents  of  wardrobes,  drawers,  and  closets. 
Her  brain  must  have  worked  with  great  rapidity, 
for  the  work  she  did  between  ten  and  half-past 
twelve  o'clock  was  very  considerable.  She  never 
seemed  to  pause  or  doubt,  or  .have  a  misgiving  or 
a  regret.  Mary  Ann  was  a  little  afraid  of  her, 
she  was  so  quick  and  her  eyes  shone  so,  that  was 
the  only  drawback  to  her  pleasure  in  the  unex 
pected  outing. 

A  little  after  twelve  Phoebe  sent  Mary  Ann 
down  to  bring  her  luncheon  to  her.  She  glanced 
around  the  rooms.  They  were  in  perfect  order. 
The  trunks  stood  packed  and  strapped.  The 
baby  in  his  fresh  dress  lay  happy  in  his  crib,  his 


240  PUCE  BE. 

cloak  and  cap  and  veil  lying  on  the  bed  ready  to 
put  on.  Phoebe  went  to  a  drawer  in  her  wardrobe, 
took  out  a  roll  of  bills  and  counted  them  over :  here 
she  showed  her  only  sign  of  perturbation  or  dis 
tress.  The  use  of  money  suggested  a  field  of  anx 
iety  to  her  to  which  she  was  not  accustomed.  Her 
hands  shook,  and  she  went  over  them  again  with 
agitation.  Yes,  forty-seven  dollars.  That  was  all 
right.  It  had  seemed  a  good  sum  to  her  when  she 
had  counted  on  it  for  some  little  indulgence.  Now 
it  was  doubtful  whether  it  would  go  very  far.  It 
was  a  secret  hoard.  She  had  never  told  Barry  of 
it.  It  was  a  legacy,  and  she  felt  sure  he  would 
laugh  at  the  idea  of  a  legacy  of  forty -seven  dollars. 
An  old  aunt  had  died  since  she  came  away  from 
home,  who  had  left  in  her  will  a  sum  of  money  to 
be  divided  between  her  nieces  and  nephews.  The 
dividend  was  not  princely,  to  be  sure,  but  it  had 
given  a  good  deal  of  satisfaction  in  the  remote 
country  homes  to  which  it  had  found  its  way,  and 
it  had  been  a  ray  of  light,  a  rope  of  safety,  a  bea 
con  of  hope  to  poor  Phoebe  that  morning  when 
she  had  first  remembered  it.  She  had  blessed 
Aunt  Abby's  memory  many  times  that  dark  day. 
She  took  out  another  purse,  that  in  which  she  kept 
the  ordinary  money,  for  household  purposes  and 
all  that,  and  taking  out  from  it  a  little  key  and 
some  small  memoranda,  wrapped  it  in  paper  with 
the  change  left  in  it,  and  put  it  in  her  drawer. 
She  forced  herself  to  eat  some  luncheon  when  it 


A  BUTTON  OFF.  241  - 

was  brought :  her  manner  had  a  resolution  in  it,  as 
if  something  external  to  herself  were  carrying  her 
forward.  The  cab  came  while  she  was  still  trying 
to  eat.  Mary  Ann,  very  much  excited  by  the  pros 
pect  of  adventure,  caught  up  the  baby  and  began 
to  put  on  his  cloak.  There  certainly  was  not  a 
moment  to  lose. 

When,  a  few  moments  later,  Phoebe  passed  over 
the  threshold  of  her  husband's  house,  and  shut 
the  door  after  her,  a  bright  spot  burned  on  each 
cheek,  but  nothing  in  her  eyes  or  manner  indi 
cated  that  she  felt  the  deep  significance  of  what 
she  was  doing,  or  was  overcome  either  by  sorrow 
for  what  was  past  or  by  terror  for  what  was  to 
come.  The  baby,  in  his  wide-eyed  unconscious 
ness,  gazed  out  of  the  carriage  window  at  which 
his  nurse  was  dandling  him,  and  showed  neither 
interest  nor  apprehension  of  the  fact  that  he  had 
turned  his  back  upon  the  only  legitimate  home 
that  the  world  offered  to  him. 

16 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

HAGAR. 

IT  was  the  second  night  after  Phoebe's  flight 
from  home.  Midnight  was  just  striking  from  the 
city  clocks.  From  the  fifth  story  of  a  great  hotel 
she  looked  down  upon  the  gas-lights  far  below  her 
in  the  streets.  There  was  a  dull,  slow  rain  against 
the  pane ;  a  mist  filled  the  space  between  her  and 
the  gaslights  below,  and  above  it  was  all  dark. 
Mary  Ann,  no  longer  in  high  spirits,  slept  on  a 
little  cot  beside  the  bed  in  which  the  baby  lay. 
The  room  was  small,  and  hot,  and  littered  with  the 
contents  of  the  open  trunks.  There  was  no  shade 
for  the  little  flaring  jet  of  gas  ;  there  was  no  glow 
in  the  little  ashen  fire  which  had  made  the  air  so 
suffocating.  There  was  discomfort  and  homeless- 
ness  in  every  inch  of  the  cheerless  place. 

Phoebe  sat  down  by  the  oval  white  marble  table, 
and  pushing  a  little  space  free  put  her  elbows  on 
it,  and  leaned  her  face  down  on  her  hands.  Yes, 
it  was  true,  —  something  must  be  done,  something 
promptly,  or  she  had  failed.  In  her  lap  lay  her 
porte-monnaie,  and  in  it  were  the  remains  of  the 
fast-melting  forty-seven  dollars.  Her  ignorance  of 


HAGAR.  243 

traveling  expenses  had  made  it  a  shock  to  her  to 
discover  that  she  could  not  get  far  away  from  home 
with  that  amount  of  money.  Here  they  were  only 
at  Albany,  and  there  would  be  but  thirteen  dol 
lars  left  after  the  hotel  bill  was  paid,  if  indeed 
that  did  not  swell  up  and  even  swallow  the  thir 
teen  dollars.  It  made  her  feel  faint  whenever  she 
remembered  the  bill  and  thought  of  the  possibility 
of  its  exceeding  her  estimate  of  its  amount.  There 
had  been  so  many  things  that  she  had  not  thought 
of,  —  the  porter,  the  express,  the  fire,  and  last, 
not  least,  the  doctor  for  the  baby.  The  hoarseness 
had  come  back,  and  she  had  had  a  great  terror  of 
his  being  ill  where  she  could  not  get  a  doctor.  It 
was  on  account  of  this  attack  that  they  had  not 
pushed  on  at  once.  Evidently  they  could  not 
travel  very  fast  with  a  delicate  young  baby,  and 
evidently  they  could  not  travel  very  far  with 
such  a  slender  purse.  No,  Phrebe  admitted  to  her 
self,  a  ^crisis  had  come:  her  first  plan  must  be 
abandoned  ;  she  must  do  what  she  could,  and  not 
what  she  would.  The  fiery  strength  with  which 
she  had  started  had  long  since  failed  her;  her  pur 
pose  was  not  weak,  but  it  was  leaden,  and  sunk 
her  to  the  earth.  She  moaned  as  she  laid  her 
head  down  on  her  arms  upon  the  marble.  Oh,  that 
she  and  her  baby  were  indeed  at  rest;  indeed  hid 
den  out  of  sight !  There  was  no  rest,  there  was  no 
hiding ;  she  could  not  get  far  enough  away  from 
people's  eyes.  How  they  looked  at  her  wherever 


244  PIKEBE. 

she  went;  how  impossible  it  was  to  disappear!  It 
had  seemed  so  easy  when  she  had  planned  it.  It 
was  like  a  nightmare,  —  eyes,  eyes,  wherever  she 
turned,  following  her,  meeting  her,  looking  down 
upon  her  from  heights  and  up  at  her  from  depths. 
She  felt  as  if  Hagar  and  Ishmael  must  be  written 
on  their  faces.  She  had  made  sure,  when  once 
they  got  away  from  the  little  strip  of  territory 
where  her  name  and  face  were  known,  that  she 
could  sink  out  of  notice,  and  be  no  more  an  object 
of  interest  to  any  one.  But  porter,  hall-boy, 
waiter,  gazed ;  commercial  travelers,  clerks,  men 
and  women,  old  and  young,  shot  glances,  inquir 
ing,  admiring,  deriding,  what  not.  How  did  she 
happen  to  be  traveling  alone?  How  did  she  happen 
to  have  such  appealing  eyes  and  such  an  agitated 
manner  when  anybody  attempted  to  get  speech  of 
her  ?  She  was  too  handsome  and  well  dressed  to 
be  unnoticed ;  the  baby  was  appareled  like  a  lit 
tle  prince,  and  was  beautiful.  Mary  Ann  thought 
the  interest  they  awakened  very  flattering.  She 
did  not  fail  to  encourage  it  as  far  as  she  was  able. 
It  was  no  use  :  slipping  away  and  not  being  seen 
was  impossible.  The  whole  thing  was  at  an  end. 
All  she  could  do  was  to  cheat  fate  by  changing 
her  mind.  She  had  been  awake  so  many  nights 
she  was  almost  like  ordinary  women  for  nervous 
ness  and  unreasonableness.  She  wanted  to  cry, 
but  she  was  too  frightened,  too  close  drawn  into 
herself ;  a  kind  word  would  have  broken  her 


HAGAR.  245 

down,  but  that  did  not  seem  likely  to  come,  seeing 
Mary  Ann  was  rather  afraid  to  speak  to  her,  and 
the  baby  did  not  know  how. 

It  was  not  her  way  to  sit  down  and  think  over 
things  forever.  She  had  been  cabined  and  con 
fined  in  this  little  room  so  long  she  had  been 
forced  to  do  more  of  it  than  was  natural  to  her. 
Now  she  must  end  it  and  resolve  upon  some 
thing.  She  got  up,  walked  restlessly  to  the  win 
dow  and  back  ;  gazed  down  from  the  dizzy  height 
into  the  narrow  misty  street  below,  then  to  the 
baby's  bed,  and  then  back  again.  By  this  time 
her  resolution  was  taken.  She  went  to  a  trunk, 
pulled  it  out,  and  began  to  rearrange  and  repack  it 
carefully.  A  few  stitches  were  needed  on  some 
of  the  baby's  clothes.  She  took  out  needle  and 
thread,  and  stood  close  by  the  little  gas  jet  and 
mended  them.  Her  own  traveling  -  dress  she 
brushed  carefully,  and  she  even  pulled  out  the  fin 
gers  of  her  gloves  and  examined  them.  It  was 
plain  she  was  afraid  her  occupation  would  not  last 
her  the  night  out ;  she  was  quite  right.  At  four 
o'clock  she  had  to  lie  down  beside  the  baby  and 
consider  that  there  was  nothing  else  to  do.  She 
felt  a  shuddering  horror  of  the  dark  and  silence 
and  covered  up  her  eyes  and  tried  to  get  asleep. 

As  soon  as  it  was  dawn  she  waked  Mary  Ann 
and  told  her  they  were  going  away  ;  she  must 
get  up  and  dress.  She  dressed  herself,  and  went 
down  to  get  her  breakfast  in  the  great,  gray, 


246  PHCEBE. 

empty  dining  room,  where  the  million  subtle  scents 
of  as  many  savory  meals  slew  appetite  and  filled 
one  to  repletion.  One  or  two  sleepy,  stolid-looking 
travelers  were  breakfasting  ;  the  waiters  seemed 
to  blink  and  their  steps  to  resound  in  the  bare, 
empty  room.  The  clerk  at  the  desk  where  she 
went  to  pay  her  bill  looked  sleepy,  too,  and  indif 
ferent.  The  bill  was  not  quite  as  large  as  she 
had  thought  possible ;  she  had  fifteen  dollars  in 
stead  of  thirteen  wherewith  to  meet  the  world. 
There  were  yet  so  many  things  to  think  of,  —  the 
hall-boy,  the  luncheon,  the  railway  tickets,  the 
chamber-maid. 

While  Mary  Ann  went  down  to  get  her  break 
fast,  and  the  baby  lay  on  the  bed  and  amiably 
shook  his  rattle  in  the  air,  she  counted  out  a  cer 
tain  sum  and  laid  it  by  itself,  hurried  into  a 
valise  the  few  possessions  of  Mary  Ann,  put  that 
young  woman's  bonnet  and  cloak  beside  it,  and 
taking  out  her  watch  counted  the  moments  till  she 
came  back. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  late,"  she  said,  in  a  voice 
in  which  there  was  a  little  agitation  autlible. 
*'  Your  train  goes  in  fifteen  minutes.  Put  your 
bonnet  on  as  quickly  as  you  can." 

Mary  Ann  looked  bewildered,  but  obeyed. 

"  The  baby,"  she  said.  "  Shan't  I  dress  him 
before  I  put  my  cloak  on  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  her  mistress,  looking  at  her 
watch,  and  not  at  the  woman.  "  You  are  to  go 


HAGAR.  247 

home  this  morning.  I  —  have  thought — that  is 
—  it  seems  best  —  for  you  to  take  this  first  train 
to  New  York.  When  you  get  there  you  can  find 
your  way  easily  to  the  Marrowfat  train.  Any 
policeman  will  tell  you,  but  I  Ve  written  it  all 
down  here  in  case  you  forget  anything.  Here  is 
the  money  for  your  ticket ;  there  are  crackers  in 
the  bag  for  your  luncheon." 

"  But "  —  said  Mary  Ann,  too  dazed  and  help 
less  to  button  her  cloak  —  "  the  baby  —  who  is  to 
mind  the  baby  "  — 

"  Oh,"  said  Phoebe,  desperately,  putting  the 
bag  into  her  limp  hands  and  almost  pushing  her 
towards  the  door,  "  don't  stop  to  think  about  the 
baby.  You  really  have  n't  a  moment  to  spare. 
The  hall-boy  is  waiting  outside  to  take  you  to  the 
depot  and  show  you  where  to  get  your  ticket. 
Remember  to  keep  it  in  your  porte-monnaie.  And 
here  is  your  return  ticket  to  Marrowfat  from  the 
city.  Put  that  in  the  other  side.  There,  good- 
by ;  you  really  must  not  stay  another  minute." 

Mary  Ann  cast  a  mute,  distracted  look  towards 
her  little  charge  on  the  bed,  but  had  not  the  com 
posure  necessary  to  ask  for  a  last  embrace  of  him. 
She  grasped  the  bag  and  the  porte-monnaie,  and 
impelled  by  the  stronger  will  of  her  mistress  went 
out  of  the  dooE  without  another  word.  Phoabe 
gave  the  waiting  hall-boy  directions  about  the 
train  and  the  car  in  which  he  was  to  put  the  pli 
ant  Mary  Ann.  It  was  all  done  so  promptly  and 


248  PH(EBE. 

so  assuredly  that  the  poor  girl  did  not  get  her 
breath  till  she  was  in  the  cars  and  fairly  on  her 
way  to  the  city.  There  was  but  one  form  of 
words  which  came  to  her  relief.  "  Well-I-never," 
she  began  to  murmur  at  Greenbush,  and  at  Spuy- 
ten  Duyvil  she  had  not  got  any  farther,  but  only 
emphasized  the  expression  of  the  same  idea,  if 
Well-I-never  may  be  said  to  be  the  expression  of 
an  intelligent  idea. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE   COOK   ASSISTS. 

BARRY  had  said  lie  would  not  come  home  that 
evening  ;  he  was  even  more  vindictive  than  he 
promised,  for  he  did  not  come  home  on  the  follow 
ing.  It  was  a  satisfaction  to  him  to  know  that  he 
could  in  this  silent  way  express  his  feelings  of  in 
dignation.  He  shrunk  from  another  interview. 
He  felt  ashamed  of  himself  for  what  in  his  anger 
he  had  said  to  his  wife,  but  yet  in  a  way  he  was 
ashamed  of  feeling  so.  He  said  to  himself  that 
he  ought  to  have  said  more,  that  lie  could  not 
punish  her  enough ;  and  yet  his  heart  told  him  he 
had  done  a  cruel  and  unmanly  thing  when  he 
taunted  her  with  his  own  wrong-doing.  He  was  by 
turns  furiously  jealous  and  sickeningly  repentant. 

But  away  from  Marrowfat  the  whole  thing 
weakened  and  lost  coloring.  He  hated  the  idea  of 
going  back  and  having  the  uncomfortable  sensa 
tions  revived.  He  was  not  pacified,  but  he  was 
diverted.  His  natural  kindliness  of  nature  was 
glad  of  the  reprieve ;  his  habitual  feeling  of  what 
others  owed  to  him  oply  consented  to  it  as  a  re 
prieve.  When  after  the  pressure  of  an  exciting 


250  PHCEEE. 

day  in  Wall  Street  lie  concluded  to  go  up  town 
and  dine  with  a  friend,  he  thought  to  himself  he 
was  acting  very  handsomely  in  not  locking  him 
self  up  in  a  hotel  room  and  brooding  over  his 
wrongs,  or  even  blowing  his  own  or  Peyton's 
brains  out.  He  felt  few  men  would  h;ive  done 
better.  He  even  went  to  the  theatre  that  night ; 
and  though  there  was  a  weight  on  his  spirits  that 
made  him  vaguely  uncomfortable,  there  was  no 
noticeable  depression  in  his  manner  or  expression. 
When  it  approached  evening  on  the  following 
day  he  found  himself  instinctively  dreading  the 
renewal  of  the  disagreeable  experiences  which  go 
ing  home  involved.  He  knew  that  with  it  he 
must  take  up  matters  where  he  had  laid  them 
down.  He  did  not  say  to  himself  that  he  doubted 
his  doubts  or  was  suspicious  of  his  suspicions  when 
he  was  away  from  Marrowfat,  but  it  was  about 
the  truth.  Still,  when  he  thought  of  it  he  grew 
angry  again.  He  yielded  to  the  importunities  of  a 
friend  who  urged  his  staying  with  him  that  night. 
He  wrote  a  dispatch  to  Phoebe  and  then  tore  it  up. 
It  would  be  well  for  her  to  look  for  him,  and  she 
must  bear  her  disappointment  as  best  she  might ; 
it  would  be  a  wholesome  lesson  to  her,  and  would 
show  her  what  even  the  faintest  disloyalty  to  him 
would  always  cost  her.  He  grew  angry  as  he 
allowed  himself  to  think  of  it ;  he  always  grew 
angry  when  he  thought  of  it ;  his  only  safety 
was  in  keeping  it  out  of  his  mind,  and  the  only 


THE   COOK  ASSISTS.  251 

way  to  do  that  was  to  have  his  mind  full  of  other 
things.  Wall  Street  answered  very  well  during 
the  day  ;  and  the  club  and  the  theatre  and  two  or 
three  old  friends  stood  him  in  stead  for  the  even 
ing.  But  the  night,  "  the  dead,  unhappy  night;  " 
he  was  not  so  successful  in  the  matter  of  the 
night. 

When  the  third  afternoon  of  his  absence  wore 
away  to  train-time  he  had  many  misgivings,  but 
he  had  begun  to  feel  he  had  carried  the  punish 
ment  far  enough,  and  that  it  would  be  unmanly 
to  be  longer  unforgiving,  or  at  least  unbending. 
And  at  his  heart  there  was  a  little  uneasiness 
lest  his  silence  should  have  caused  a  wound  too 
deep  to  be  healed  by  the  palliation  which  he  was 
prepared  to  offer.  Yes,  he  would  go  home  ;  a 
train  later  than  usual  was  the  compromise  with 
his  pride  which  he  decided  on.  She  would  have 
one  full  hour  of  thinking  that  he  was  not  coming. 
It  would  be  very  wholesome. 

This  train  brought  him  to  Marrowfat  a  few 
minutes  before  seven.  There  were  none  of  his 
friends  on  it,  so  he  had  the  time  for  reflection. 
It  was  dark  and  sloppy  when  he  got  out  of  the 
cars,  feeling  sore  and  ill-used,  but  yet  in  a  certain 
sense  relieved  by  being  here,  with  no  chance  for 
retreat  possible.  It  was  not  pleasant  to  meet 
Phoebe  under  the  circumstances,  but  it  was  pleas 
ant  to  feel  he  was  manly  enough  to  do  the  right 
thing,  whether  it  was  what  he  liked  or  not.  Self- 


252  PH(EBE. 

approval  was  very  necessary  to  Barry  ;  when  this 
failed  him  he  collapsed.  Splash,  splash,  through 
the  mud,  —  phaugh!  what  a  night  for  a  man  in 
his  social  standing  to  be  coming  out  to  a  dreary 
country  home  !  What  a  life  he  led  !  What  priva 
tions  he  had  suffered  for  the  past  year !  And  all 
for  the  sake  of  —  what,  and  who  ?  Not  many 
men  would  have  done  as  he  had  done,  as  he  was 
doing ;  certainly,  not  many  men.  When  he 
thought  of  the  luxury  and  ease,  and,  what  was 
more  important  to  him,  the  dignity  and  good 
form,  with  which  his  life  would  have  been  con 
ducted  but  for  this  marriage,  he  did  not  grow  bit 
ter  ;  he  grew  better  tempered,  because  he  thought 
so  well  of  himself.  He  said  to  himself,  The  money 
is  coming,  and  that  will  restore  everything,  and 
all  will  yet  be  well  if  Phoebe  will  but  prove  her 
self  all  right,  and  explain  away  the  dark  circum 
stances  that  he  was  not  to  blame  for  demanding 
an  explanation  oL  As  he  neared  the  house  he 
began  to  feel  an  assurance  that  she  would  make 
such  an  explanation. 

The  gate  was  closed,  which  he  thought  unnec 
essary.  He  pushed  it  open,  and  went  through  the 
damp  grass  to  see  that  it  was  fastened  back  and 
would  not  come  shut  again.  He  looked  up  to  the 
windows  of  the  rooms  they  occupied  on  the  third 
floor.  There  was  no  light.  Neither  was  there 
one  on  the  first  floor.  All  was  as  dark  as  if  no 
one  lived  in  the  house.  This  did  not  please  him. 


THE   COOK  ASSISTS.  253 

People  knew  he  was  at  home  again,  and  it  did  not 
look  well  for  a  man  who  was  something  very  im 
portant  in  a  syndicate  to  be  living  like  a  journey 
man  tailor  in  a  back  shop.  Phoebe's  economies  had 
become  detestable  to  him.  He  knocked  the  mud 
off  his  boots,  and  fumbled  about  for  the  knob  of 
the  door.  The  door  of  course  was  locked  :  he  did 
not  blame  her  for  that,  but  he  had  to  hunt  again 
for  the  bell  handle,  which  when  found  he  pulled 
very  sharply  once  or  twice.  After  an  unreasona 
ble  time  of  waiting,  a  faint  glimmer  appeared  in 
the  fan-light  over  the  door,  and  some  one  said, 
"Who 'a  there?" 

Barry  said  who  was,  in  a  very  irritated  tone. 
Then  an  exclamation,  and  some  one  began  undo 
ing  bolts  and  bars  which  seemed  to  have  no  end. 
He  rather  uncivilly  pushed  against  the  door  be 
fore  the  last  chain  was  dropped.  The  cook  said 
she  was  doing  her  best,  if  he  would  please  wait  a 
minute  longer.  He  waited,  not  because  he  pleased, 
but  because  he  could  not  help  himself.  The  cook 
stood  back  and  let  him  pass,  and  set  down  her 
candle  on  the  floor  while  she  replaced  a  few  of  the 
household  defenses. 

"Why  don't  you  have  a  light  in  the  hall?"  he 
said,  angrily,  setting  down  his  hat  and  taking  off 
his  coat. 

The  cook  said  she  was  not  expecting  anybody, 
and  it  did  not  seem  worth  while  to  be  burning 
out  gas  for  nothing.  He  threw  down  his  coat  and 


254  PHCEEE. 

pushed  open  the  library  door :  there  was  no  light 
nor  fire  there ;  it  felt  very  cold  and  damp,  as  if  the 
furnace  fire  had  not  been  lighted  for  some  days. 
By  this  time  the  cook  had  fastened  the  door  and 
taken  her  candle  up  and  set  it  on  the  table. 

"You  '11  be  wantin'  somethin'  to  eat,"  she  began. 

"  Naturally,"  he  returned,  shortly. 

"  There  is  n't  a  happoth  in  the  house,"  she  said, 
well  pleased  that  her  economies  should  be  recog 
nized. 

"  What's  the  matter?"  he  asked,  sharply,  turn 
ing  to  her.  "  Has  Mrs.  Crittenden  had  her  din 
ner?" 

"  Mrs.  Crittenden  !  "  ejaculated  the  woman, 
throwing  up  her  hands.  "  Why,  she  's  been  gone 
these  three  days  !  Bless  you,  has  anything  hap 
pened  her  a-gittin'  to  you  ?  Why,  I  made  sure 
she  and  you  was  having  a  foine  time  together  in 
the  city,  after  her  bein'  so  lonely  all  the  winter. 
And  hearin'  no  word  from  either  of  yez,  I  never 
laid  in  nothin'  from  the  butcher  nor  the  grocer, 
nor  the  iceman  even.  I  just  let  'em  come  and  let 
'em  go,  and  scold  and  fume  as  much  as  they  liked. 
Do  yez  live  on  nothin'  yerself,  they  said.  I  told 
'em  it  was  none  of  their  business  what  I  lived  on 
as  long  as  I  done  my  dooty." 

Barry's  back  was  turned  to  the  woman,  and  she 
did  not  see  how  pale  he  grew  at  her  first  words. 
Her  final  ones  (and  a  great  many  had  intervened, 
of  no  great  literary  or  statistic  value)  seemed  to 


THE   COOK  ASSISTS.  255 

demand  some  kind  of  a  response.  She  could  put 
some  tea,  anything,  on  the  table,  and  send  Mary 
Ann  up-stairs  to  tell  him  when  it  was  ready. 

"  Mary  Ann !  "  she  cried,  throwing  up  her 
hands  again  in  genuine  amazement.  "  What  is 
the  man  talking  of !  You  did  n't  think  she  'd 
left  the  baby  behind  her,  and  her  a-nursin'  of  him 
yet !  Why,  Mary  Ann  's  went  with  her.  You 
had  n't  been  an  hour  out  of  the  house  when  such 
a  pullin'  out  of  trunks  and  a  packin'  up  of  clothes 
begun  as  never  was.  And  they  was  off  in  the 
noon  train.  Mary  Ann,  indeed  !  Why,  Mary  Ann 
was  as  pleased  as  Punch,  and  never  so  much  as 
passed  a  remark  about  my  being  left  alone,  and 
not  a  soul  in  the  house  day  in  day  out,  to  speak  a 
livin'  word  to." 

All  this  time  Barry  was  walking,  dazed  and 
speechless,  up  the  stairs.  The  woman's  voice  rang 
after  him  with  clear  distinctness  in  the  still  and 
empty  house.  He  longed  to  get  to  his  own  room, 
to  turn  the  key,  to  think,  and  to  adjust  himself 
to  this  unexpected  situation.  She  went  on  talk 
ing  about  his  tea^  about  her  economies,  about 
Mary  Ann.  He  shut  the  door  when  he  got  up 
stairs,  and  struck  a  match  and  lighted  the  gas. 
There  was  a  chair  near  him,  and  he  sat  down  in 
it ;  possibly  he  felt  a  little  weak  and  ill  for  the 
moment.  Of  all  the  surprises  of  his  life,  this  was 
the  most  complete.  He  did  not  know  exactly 
what  he  thought  or  felt.  He  did  not  for  a  while 


256  PHCEBE. 

ask  himself  what  it  meant ;  he  only  said  over  and 
over  to  himself,  Could  it  possibly  be  true  ?  Later 
on  he  was  racked  with  the  doubt  whether  her  go 
ing  meant  guilt  or  indignation.  But  he  had  not 
vet  begun  to  weigh  things,  to  decide,  to  define. 
All  he  could  say  or  think  was  surmounted  by 
amazement.  Phosbe  gone,  the  child  gone,  the  one 
spot  on  earth  of  which  he  felt  himself  in  sure  and 
stable  possession  a  blank  to  him.  No  word,  noth 
ing  ?  It  was  impossible. 

After  a  while  he  got  up  and  began  to  look 
about  for  a  letter.  He  had  not  asked  the  woman, 
but  if  she  had  had  any  message  she  would  have 
given  it  to  him.  Indeed,  as  she  had  thought  they 
were  together,  there  could  have  been  no  message. 
He  began  vaguely  and  abstractedly ;  he  grew  fe 
verish  and  frightened  as  he  went  on.  He  palled 
open  drawers  and  closets ;  he  searched  in  boxes 
and  on  shelves.  All  were  in  order ;  everything 
showed  a  recent  definite  arrangement.  Every 
thing  told  one  story.  The  going  was  final.  If 
there  had  been  haste  in  her  going  it  was  directed 
by  an  intention  so  definite  that  nothing  escaped 
it.  Of  the  child's  possessions  there  was  nothing 
left  that  could  be  packed  into  a  trunk;  only  the 
crib  and  a  chair  or  two  of  his  remained  in  either 
of  the  rooms.  Of  Phoebe's  own,  everything  was 
gone  that  had  been  hers  before  marriage  ;  every 
thing  was  left  that  had  been  given  her  by  her 
husband  or  bought  with  his  money  —  gloves  half 


THE   COOK  ASSISTS.  257 

worn,  handkerchiefs,  veils,  scraps  of  lace  and  rib 
bon,  a  new  dress  or  two,  all  arranged  in  perfect 
order,  and  laid  by  themselves  as  if  with  gravest 
intention.  In  her  dressing  -  table  drawer  lay  a 
package  containing  her  wedding-ring  and  the  few 
pieces  of  jewelry  he  had  ever  given  her.  It  was 
not  even  addressed  to  him.  In  another  package 
was  her  porte-monnaie  and  little  account-book, 
with  a  hurried  entry  in  pencil  on  the  day  of  her 
going.  The  change  in  the  pocket-book  agreed 
with  the  statement  of  household  expenses  up  to 
that  day.  He  looked  through  her  writing  -  desk. 
There  was  nothing  there  but  paper,  pens,  stamps, 
some  bills,  not  a  scrap  of  her  writing,  not  a  letter 
that  belonged  to  her  except  —  the  slim  package  of 
Barry's  own  while  he  was  away. 

Could  all  this  have  been  the  work  of  three 
hours  ?  Was  it  possible  that  she  had  had  no  in 
tention  of  going  away  from  him  till  he  had  said 
what  he  did  to  her  that  morning  ?  Barry  did  not 
know  what  he  believed,  what  he  apprehended. 
He  walked  up  and  down  the  rooms  feeling  stunned 
and  helpless,  like  a  person  recovering  from  a  pros 
trating  illness,  or  getting  over  a  long  debauch. 
He  felt  feeble  in  will,  weak  in  judgment,  incapa 
ble  of  continuous  thought. 

By  and  by  the  cook  came  up,  bringing  a  tray 
of  things  for  him  to  eat.  She  made  an  exclama 
tion  at  the  coldness  of  the  room,  and  went  down 
on  her  knees  upon  the  hearth  and  scraped  to- 

17 


258  PH(EBE. 

gether  the  remnants  of  some  half-consumed  wood, 
and  succeeded  in  lighting  them. 

•'  It's  no  matter,"  he  said,  wanting  to  get  rid  of 
her. 

But  she  saw  he  was  in  a  great  deal  of  trouble, 
and  she  was  clumsily  sorry  for  him.  She  had 
liked  her  mistress  very  well,  but,  like  a  true  Irish 
woman,  she  liked  her  master  very  much  better. 
So  she  set  out  his  tea  with  considerable  clatter, 
and  made  a  nice  fire,  and  lighted  a  lamp,  and  tried 
to  cheer  him  up  with  a  good  deal  of  rambling  con 
versation,  which  he  did  not  seem  to  hear.  Indeed, 
she  was  surprised  at  the  things  which  she  made 
bold  to  say  to  him,  and  which  he  did  not  appear 
to  resent  or  even  understand.  He  had  always  in 
spired  her  with  much  respectful  admiration  ;  now 
her  principal  feeling  was  that  of  admiring  pity, 
and  every  one  knows  to  what  length  Irish  admiring 
pity  is  capable  of  going.  He  humbly  wished  she 
would  go  away.  He  did  not  know  what  made  her 
stay ;  he  could  not  eat  anything  she  had  brought 
him.  He  had  swallowed  the  coffee  and  felt  a  little 
nerved  up  by  it,  but  not  to  the  point  of  asking 
her  questions  which  he  knew  beforehand  she 
could  not  answer.  He  looked  so  wretched  that 
she  could  hardly  tear  herself  away  from  the  sight, 
and  yet  was  so  irresponsive  that  she  was  finally 
obliged  to  do  it.  She  took  the  tray  away,  and, 
promising  the  fire  a  little  more  wood  in  the  course 
of  half  an  hour,  went  down  the  dark  stairs  into 


THE  .COOK  ASSISTS.  259 

the  dim  kitchen,  filled  with  the  emotions  that  we 
seek  in  the  drama.  While  our  servants  have  to 
go  to  funerals  and  are  driven  to  make  the  most  of 
fires  and  robberies  and  their  friends'  misfortunes, 
we  go  to  the  theatre  to  get  the  same  sensations,  or 
find  them  in  highly-wrought  fiction  with  even  less 
effort.  It  is  not  the  least  trying  of  the  inequal 
ities  of  fortune.  The  cook  could  no  more  have 
given  up  the  contemplation  of  the  third-story 
drama  than  you  or  I  would  be  likely  to  give  up 
voluntarily  the  contemplation  of  Salvini  in  the 
third  act  of  Othello.  She  soon  found  an  excuse 
for  tiptoeing  up  the  stairs  again,  and  tapping  at 
the  door  of  the  little  study. 

"  A   letter,    sir,  that 's   after  comin'  from   the 
mail.     May  be  you  'd  be  wantin'  it." 

She  put  it  into  his  hands  at  the  door,  and  so 
arranged  matters  that  he  could  not  very  well  shut 
it  in  her  face  ;  by  which  means  she  commanded 
for  the  next  ten  minutes  a  certain  though  imper 
fect  view  of  the  stage  and  its  agitated  actor.  If 
one  cannot  have  a  front  balcony  seat,  one  is  some 
times  thankful  to  catch  a  glimpse  between  the 
flies.  Barry  forgot  his  audience ;  he  devoured  the 
direction  on  the  letter  with  kindling  eyes.  It  was 
addressed  to  Phoebe,  and  was  in  the  abhorred 
handwriting  of  his  childhood's  friend.  The  post-  ' 
mark  was  Washington,  the  date  was  obliterated. 
He  ripped  the  envelope  open  with  no  paltering  of 
conscience  about  the  act.  It  read  as  follows :  — 


260  PIKEBE. 

MY  DEAR  PHCEBE,  —  I  reached  this  place  last 
evening.  I  leave  to-morrow  for  St.  Louis.  A  let 
ter  addressed  to  the  Southern  Hotel  will  find  me 
there  till  after  Tuesday.  Then  my  next  address 
will  be  the  St.  Charles,  New  Orleans. 

Yours  sincerely,  PEYTON  EDWARDS. 

This  letter  acted  like  the  application  of  a  bat 
tery  to  a  comatose  person.  Barry's  eyes  seemed 
to  burn  holes  in  the  paper  as  he  looked  at  it.  He 
clinched  his  hands,  ground  his  fine  white  teeth  to 
gether,  uttered  some  passionate  exclamations,  and 
walked  about  the  room  angrily.  At  this  moment 
there  was  a  ringing  at  the  kitchen  bell,  which 
seemed  to  the  cook  too  cruel  an  interruption  to  be 
borne.  She  was  consoled  only  by  the  thought 
that  it  might  be  another  letter,  equally  electric, 
or  at  any  rate  that  she  would  not  be  long  away. 
She  would  make  short  work  of  any  ordinary 
visitor  of  her  own,  and  would  return  on  the 
legitimate  and  flat-footed  errand  of  bringing  up 
more  wood.  So  she  tiptoed  down  in  all  haste,  and 
left  Barry  walking  up  and  down  the  room  quite 
unconscious  of  her  interest  and  attendance.  Her 
return  was  flat-footed,  breathless,  prompt. 

"  I  've  come  to  tell  you,"  she  panted,  supporting 

•  herself   by  the  door-post,  for  she  was  no   longer 

young,    and    such    rapid    journeys   up   and   down 

the  stairs,  not  to   mention    these   exciting   scenes, 

were  exhausting  to  her  strength,  —  "I  've  come  to 


THE  COOK  ASSISTS.  261 

tell  you  Mary  Ann 's  after  getting  back  this 
minute." 

"Mary  Ann!"  exclaimed  her  master,  turning 
sharply  round.  "  Where  "  —  and  he  stopped  short, 
facing  the  lean,  keen-visaged,  curious  Irish-woman, 
and  realizing  in  an  instant  the  full  ignominy  of 
his  position. 

The  woman  dropped  her  eyes ;  she  was  keen 
enough  to  know  that  he  must  be  ashamed  to  ask 
questions  of  his  servants  about  his  wife.  "  I 
thought  you  'd  likely  want  to  know  how  she  'd 
left  the  mistress  and  the  baby  "  — 

"  Yes,  send  her  up." 

"  She  '11  come  in  a  minute  ;  she  's  sort  of  upset 
like.  She  ain't  used  to  going  about  by  herself ; 
she  's  kind  of  childish,  is  Mary  Ann.  I  '11  give 
her  a  dish  o'  tea,  and  let  her  rest  a  bit,  and  then 
mebbe  she  '11  be  able  to  come  up." 

"She  must  hurry,  then,"  said  Barry,  desperately, 
"  for  I  'm  going  out." 

This  gave  the  cook  a  fright,  as  one  would  feel, 
in  the  most  exciting  moment  of  a  tragedy,  to 
think  of  the  gas  being  turned  off,  the  curtain 
dropped,  and  the  audience  told  to  go  about  their 
business.  She  hurriedly  said  Mary  Ann  would 
certainly  come  up,  if  he  would  wait  a  bit.  She  'd 
see  herself  that  no  time  was  lost  about  it. 

No  time  was  lost  about  it.  In  a  very  short 
space,  Mary  Ann  stood  before  her  master  in  the 
doorway  of  the  little  study,  with  the  tears  scarcely 


262  PHCEBE. 

dried  upon  her  cheeks,  her  bonnet  strings  untied 
and  fluttering,  her  hair  agitatedly  awry,  and  her 
cloak  unbuttoned,  but  not  taken  off. 

When  she  saw  Mr.  Crittenden,  she  began  to 
cry  afresh  ;  what  for,  it  would  be  difficult  to  say. 
The  sight  of  her  rather  unnerved  her  master ;  he 
hated  tears  from  any  source.  She  was  young  and 
presumably  innocent,  and  she  affected  him  very 
differently  from  the  elderly  and  inquisitive  and 
most  unbeautiful  cook.  He  did  not  feel  the  degra 
dation  to  be  nearly  so  great  to  have  to  learn  from 
her  the  last  news  of  his  wife.  Besides,  he  had  so 
constantly  seen  her  with  the  child  in  her  arms, 
she  seemed  at  a  little  less  impossible  distance  than 
the  other. 

"  Well,  Mary  Ann,"  he  said,  suppressing  a  ris 
ing  sob,  roused  by  the  thought  of  the  baby  and 
the  sight  of  her  agitation,  "  don't  cry  ;  that  won't 
do  any  good.  How 's  —  baby,  and  where  have  you 
left  him?" 

That  only  made  her  cry  the  more  ;  what  for, 
who  shall  say  ?  For  Mary  Ann  had  not  been  a 
very  absorbed  nurse,  and  had  frequently  found 
herself  much  wearied  by  her  duties,  and  had  given 
warning  more  than  once.  It  was  a  good  while  be 
fore  she  could  calm  herself  enough  to  say  when 
she  had  parted  from  her  mistress.  Indeed,  she 
hardly  knew  where ;  she  had  very  little  memory 
for  names.  She  bethought  herself  at  last  of  the 
written  directions  her  mistress  had  given  her,  and 


THE   COOK  ASSISTS.  .      263 

hunted  for  them  in  her  pocket,  and  gave  them  to 
him,  a  little  the  worse  for  much  study  and  con 
sultation  with  conductors  and  policemen  and  be 
nevolent  persons  on  the  way.  They  were  written 
out  in  Phoebe's  clear,  strong  hand ;  even  muddle- 
headed  Mary  Ann  could  sail  by  such  a  chart,  it 
seemed.  Barry  studied  it  for  a  moment. 

"  When  did  you  go  there  ?  "  he  said. 

"  To  where  ?    To  the  big  hotel,  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Yes,  the  hotel  in  Albany." 

"  Oh,  the  day  we  went  away  from  here  ;  we 
got  there  in  the  evening.  The  baby  got  hoarse,  — 
that 's  the  reason  we  stayed  there  all  next  day ;  she 
told  the  doctor  we  was  in  a  great  hurry,  but  he 
said  it  would  n't  do  to  take  the  baby  out." 

"  Tell  me  :  the  day  you  went  away  from  here, 
what  did  you  do  till  you  took  the  train  for  Albany  ? 
Did  you  go  anywhere,  to  any  house,  or  meet  any 
body  anywhere  ?  " 

"  Oh,  we  met  lots  and  lots  of  people  everywhere, 
but  nobody,  I  think,  that  spoke  to  us.  We  went 
right  up  in  a  carriage  to  the  depot  where  that  train 
started  from,  and  stopped  there  till  it  went.  The 
baby  was  that  good  he  never  fretted  onst  all  the 
way  a-goin'.  You  would  n't  have  knowed  there 
was  a  baby  in  the  train  at  all." 

And  Mary  Ann  began  to  cry  again. 

"  Well,"  said  Barry,  walking  up  and  down  the 
room,  "and  while  you  were  at  the  hotel,  did  — 
did  anybody  come  to  see  your  mistress  ?  " 


264  PH(EBE. 

"  No,"  said  Mary  Ann. 

"  Did  she  send  for  anybody,  write  notes,  go  out 
anywhere  ?  " 

"  No,"  returned  the  girl,  rather  bewildered. 
"  She  was  always  takin'  care  of  baby.  She  was 
in  the  room  all  the  time  but  when  she  was  down 
to  her  meals.  She  might  have  wrote  notes  while 
I  was  asleep ;  I  can't  say  as  to  that." 

"  And  what  did  she  say  to  you  when  she  told 
you  to  come  home  ?  " 

"  She  did  n't  say  nothing  but  just  that." 

"  And  when  did  you  know  she  meant  to  send 
you  back  ?  " 

"  After  I  'd  got  my  breakfast,  this  morning. 
She  just  told  me  I  was  to  go  home,  and  she  give 
me  my  ticket,  and  there  was  n't  anything  for  me 
to  do,  for  she  'd  packed  my  things  up  unbeknownst, 
and  she  put  the  bag  into  my  hand  and  just  whizzed 
me  off  before  I  knew  what  it  was  all  about." 

And  Mary  Ann,  at  the  recital  of  her  wrongs, 
began  to  cry  again.  "  And  she  never  told  me 
whether  I  was  to  stay  here  after  I  got  here,  or 
whether  she  did  n't  want  me  no  more,  or  anything 
about  it.  She  just  sent  me,  that  was  all.  She 
might  a-told  me,  I  should  think." 

"  And  do  you  know  how  long  she  was  to  stay 
at  the  hotel  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  she  was  goin'  to  stay  at  all ;  I 
think  she  was  goin'  right  away.  She  had  all 
packed  up  the  trunks  last  night  while  I  was  asleep. 


THE   COOK  ASSISTS.  265 

There  was  n't  anything  left  out  but  baby's  cloak 
and  cap." 

"  What  place  did  she  talk  about  ?  Where  do 
you  think  she  meant  to  go  ?  " 

Mary  Ann  could  not  remember,  though  she 
tried.  She  had  heard  her  ask  at  the  office  for  a 
time-table  ;  she  had  heard  the  clerk  tell  her  the 
hour  that  a  certain  morning  train  would  bring  her 
to  a  certain  place,  but  the  name  of  the  place 
she  had  forgotten.  Barry  repeated  to  her  many 
routes,  the  names  of  many  cities.  At  the  naming 
of  Montreal  and  Canada  she  showed  interest. 

"  I  should  n't  wonder  if  that  was  it,"  she  said. 
And  that  w;is  as  near  as  Barry  could  get  to  assur 
ance  of  any  kind.  He  came  to  a  sudden  conclu 
sion  ;  there  was  no  time  to  be  lost ;  the  last  train 
to  the  city  left  the  depot  in  fifteen  minutes.  When 
for  the  second  time  that  day  Mary  Ann  was  treated 
to  the  surprise  of  a  sudden  separation  from  her 
employer,  she  found  herself  better  prepared  to 
meet  it  under  the  sheltering  wing  of  the  cook  in 
the  comfortable  Crittenden  kitchen.  Her  "  Well- 
I-never  "  echoed  harmlessly  among  the  pots  and 
pans  of  that  well-scrubbed  region.  The  cook  could 
not  hear  too  much  of  her  recent  strange  adven 
tures  ;  together  they  sat  up  till  "  all  hours  "  of  the 
night,  and  talked  "  about  it  goddess  and  about  it," 
till,  like  their  betters,  they  scarcely  knew  what  was 
truth  and  what  was  speculation. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

BACING  AND  CHASING   ON   CANOBIE  LEE. 

BARKY'S  first  telegram  was  sent  to  the  hotel  at 
Albany.  He  could  not  tell  if  she  had  registered 
in  her  own  name  or  not ;  but  it  seemed  she  had. 
In  due  course  of  electricity  came  the  intelligence 
that  Mrs.  Crittenden  had  left  the  hotel  on  the 
previous  morning.  His  next  was  to  Maiden,  sent 
in  the  name  of  one  of  his  clerks,  to  know  if  she 
were  in  the  place.  The  answer  was  prompt.  She 
was  not  living  there.  His  third  was  addressed  to 
Peyton  Edwards,  and  contained  a  demand  for  in 
telligence  of  the  whereabouts  of  his  wife.  From 
Washington  came  the  information  that  he  was  not 
there ;  from  St.  Louis  the  same.  After  a  couple 
of  hours  of  desperation,  consultation  with  detec 
tives,  and  all  the  unwisdom  of  a  maddened  man, 
a  dispatch  arrived  from  Peyton  at  St.  Louis.  He 
had  just  reached  there,  and  had  found  Barry's  dis 
patch.  He  knew  nothing  of  Phoebe ;  had  looked 
for  a  letter  from  her,  but  was  disappointed.  "  Try 
Maiden."  An  hour  after,  another :  "  Try  Brix- 
ton.  Answer."  Another,  after  another  not  much 
longer  interval,  evincing  the  keenest  anxiety: 


RACING  AND  CHASING  ON  CANOBIE  LEE.  267 

"  Let  me  know  at  once.  Avoid  publicity.  You 
may  be  sure  it  will  be  all  right." 

It  began  to  be  borne  in  upon  Barry's  mind  that 
his  wife  was  not  eloping  with  Peyton  Edwards, 
though  the  detectives  did  not  see  his  grounds  for 
confidence.  If  he  could  have  cleared  up  the  mys 
tery  of  her  possessing  money  enough  to  go  away, 
he  would  have  dismissed  the  theory  of  Peyton's 
complicity  in  her  going.  But  her  money  state 
ments  were  so  accurate  and  simple.  She  had  had 
no  friends  to  apply  to  for  funds.  She  had  left  be 
hind  her  every  piece  of  jewelry  that  would  have 
brought  her  anything.  If  she  had  gone  on  the 
spur  of  the  taunt  he  had  thrown  at  her,  he  could 
not  account  for  her  having  enough  money  to 
make  the  journey  to  Albany.  If  she  had  had  it 
long  in  contemplation,  then  Peyton  was  at  the 
bottom  of  it.  But  in  his  heart,  somehow,  he  felt  a 
growing  conviction  that  he  had  sent  Phoebe  away, 
and  that  Peyton  had  not  enticed  her.  He  dis 
missed  the  detectives,  gorged  with  his  money  and 
sworn  to  keep  his  secret,  threw  to  the  winds  Wall 
Street,  Syndicate,  and  Fortune,  boarded  the  first 
train  to  Albany,  and,  with  a  heavy  heart,  set  out 
to  find  her. 

At  Albany  he  could  strike  no  clue.  The  only 
tiling  was  to  follow  the  nurse's  suggestion  and  look 
for  her  in  Montreal.  Then  there  was  simply  noth 
ing  to  help  him.  He  spent  two  days  in  pursuing 
phantoms ;  came  back  from  Canada  despairing 


268  PHCEBE. 

and  angry,  with  suspicions  again  aroused  against 
Peyton.  In  this  state  of  mind,  he  hurried  to  Chi 
cago,  led  by  a  clue  chance  threw  in  his  way.  An 
official  to  whom  he  spoke  in  the  railway  station 
remembered  a  lady,  with  a  child  in  her  arms,  buy 
ing  a  ticket  for  Chicago  some  four  days  ago.  He 
recollected  her  perfectly :  large,  handsome  woman. 
Could  not  tell  the  color  of  her  dress  ;  something 
dark.  Did  not  see  the  child's  face  ;  thought  it  was 
asleep;  wondered  why  she  did  not  have  a  nurse 
for  it;  she  looked  "smart  "  enough  dressed  to  have 
one.  She  looked  like  a  lady.  She  acted  as  if  she 
did  not  want  people  to  see  her.  She  pulled  down 
her  veil  when  he  looked  at  her.  He  should  know 
her  in  a  minute. 

Barry  kept  track  of  this  lady  without  much 
difficulty.  She  was  a  noticeable  person  and  did 
not  want  to  be  noticed.  It  was  very  plain  she 
was  getting  away  from  somebody.  He  traced  her 
step  by  step  to  a  third-rate  boarding-house  in  the 
outskirts  of  Chicago,  was  treated  to  screams  and 
hysterics  from  the  other  side  of  a  thin  partition, 
and  finally,  with  many  misgivings  but  with  des 
perate  resolution,  forced  himself  into  the  presence 
of  a  stout,  flashily  dressed  woman  of  thirty-two, 
with  a  great  deal  of  frizzed  yellow  hair,  who 
swooned  with  joy  to  find  he  was  not  her  pursuing 
husband,  and  who  clutched  in  her  arms  a  sickly 
girl  of  three,  apparently  the  bone  of  contention 
between  the  ill-assorted  pair. 


RACING  AND  CHASING  ON  CANOBIE  LEE.    269 

After  this  he  had  no  way  to  turn.  He  had 
given  up  all  theories,  to  the  one  engendered  by 
this  clue,  that  Phoebe  was  on  her  way  to  St.  Louis 
to  join  Peyton.  He  telegraphed  to  his  office  for 
news ;  was  answered  by  replicas  of  telegrams  of 
Peyton's  from  New  Orleans,  where  he  was  now 
apparently  pursuing  the  even  tenor  of  an  honest 
way,  and  where  Phoebe  was  not  likely  to  be  by 
any  ordinary  mode  of  locomotion,  with  a  croupy 
baby  in  her  arms,  and  with  very  limited  experi 
ence  in  making  connections  and  studying  out 
schedules.  Peyton's  dispatches  were  not  suave. 
They  were  rather  peremptory  ;  but  the  language 
was  ambiguous  enough  not  to  be  readily  inter 
preted  at  the  office.  He  wanted  to  be  answered  ; 
he  advised  Maiden  ;  he  almost  demanded  discre 
tion.  Barry  sulkily  put  the  dispatches  in  his 
pocket ;  he  had  no  intention  of  giving  any  answer 
to  them,  but  because  there  was  no  other  plan  put 
before  him  he  accepted  the  counsel  they  con 
tained,  bought  a  ticket  to  Maiden,  and,  haggard 
and  worn-looking,  took  his  seat  in  the  train  that 
with  many  changes  and  turns  and  much  provin 
cial  deliberation  would  bring  him  to  Maiden  by 
the  coming  on  of  dusk. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

GRAY   SHINGLES  ON   A  WET  DAY. 

THE  spring  rains  had  swollen  the  brooks  and 
gullied  the  roads  about  Maiden.  The  mud  was 
deep,  the  air  was  raw.  Phoebe  got  out  of  the  train 
with  a  sickening  weariness  of  the  dreary  scene. 
It  was  not  raining,  it  was  just  "misting;"  and 
though  it  was  not  cold  enough  to  prevent  the  snow 
left  along  the  edges  of  the  fields  and  in  sheltered 
spots  from  melting  rapidly,  the  air  seemed  more 
chill  than  winter.  The  stage-driver  even  walked 
up  and  down  the  platform,  and  beat  his  heavily 
gloved  hands  together  to  keep  them  warm.  He 
opened  the  door  of  the  stage  for  Phoebe  with  a 
little  nod  of  recognition.  He  did  not  look  more 
interested  and  surprised  than  if  she  had  been 
away  a  week  instead  of  a  year.  She  had  not 
wanted  to  make  a  sensation ;  she  had  longed  to 
steal  back  in  the  night  and  not  be  seen.  But  this 
coming  back  by  midday,  and  being  nodded  at. as 
if  it  were  not  the  deepest  wretchedness  that  had 
brought  her,  —  this  was  even  worse  than  active 
curiosity.  It  seemed  to  her  such  a  note  of  the 
life  to  which  she  had  returned,  stagnant,  common- 


GRAY  SHINGLES  ON  A    WET  DAY.       271 

place,  uneventful,  low.  She  had  gone  away  from 
it  in  bitterness  ;  she  had  come  back  to  it  with 
loathing.  Nothing  but  the  direst  necessity  had 
forced  her  to  it.  If  there  had  been  any  other 
shelter  for  her  she  would  have  taken  it.  But 
these  few  days  of  battling  for  life  among  strangers, 
with  a  weight  of  helpless  care  in  her  arms,  had 
cured  her  of  her  bold  hope  and  steadfastness.  For 
the  child's  sake  she  submitted  to  give  up,  to  seek 
the  only  refuge  that  was  open  to  her,  and  steeled 
herself  to  endure  the  most  repugnant  life  she 
could  imagine.  She  felt  beforehand  the  taunts  of 
her  neighbors  ;  she  knew  that  she  must  work  hard, 
live  low,  forget  the  past,  endure  the  present,  re 
nounce  hope  for  the  future. 

No  wonder  that  her  face  was  stern  and  set  as 
they  jolted  along  the  muddy  roadway  that  led 
from  the  station  to  the  little  village.  The  driver 
looked  back  askance  at  her,  and  concluded  not  to 
make  any  conversation  ;  he  leaned  forward  on  his 
elbows,  hummed  a  Moody  and  Sankey  tune,  and 
drove  on  stolidly.  There  was  no  other  passenger. 
Phosbe  had  the  back  seat  and  the  "  buffaloes  " 
quite  to  herself.  The  baby  was  wrapped  in  a 
traveling-shawl ;  the  fine  cloak  had  gone  two  or 
three  days  ago  to  a  greedy  shop-woman,  who  paid 
her. a  third  of  what  it  cost.  Phoebe  did  not  look 
any  too  grand  to  be  riding  in  the  Maiden  stage. 
Her  dark  dress  had  a  little  mud  on  it,  and  the  in 
definable  shade  of  careless  and  constant  wear. 


272  PHOEBE. 

She  had  wound  a  blue  veil  around  her  bonnet  to 
keep  it  from  the  rain. 

It  was  a  strange  coming  back,  she  thought, 
looking  at  the  baby  in  his  crumpled  cap  sleeping 
on  her  arm,  which  ached.  She  had  sometimes  had 
dreams  of  how  she  would  return  to  Maiden  with 
her  beautiful  boy  and  her  devoted  husband.  She 
had  felt  it  was  not  altogether  unpardonable  that  she 
should  have  such  dreams,  considering  her  humili 
ations.  She  had  fancied  how,  in  some  prosperous 
future  summer,  they  would  drive  over  the  hills 
in  an  open  carriage,  making  all  the  journey  from 
Marrowfat  in  that  luxurious  way ;  she  had  even 
seen  in  her  mind's  eye  the  sash  and  the  sailor 
hat,  and  the  soft  brown  curls  of  the  pretty  boy ; 
there  should  be  a  maid  in  a  white  cap,  and  a  man 
possibly  with  a  silk  hat  and  a  band  around  it  and 
a  buckle.  She  did  not  go  the  length  of  a  livery, 
but  the  velvet  band  would  be  so  possible,  even 
if  they  had  grown  only  moderately  prosperous. 
Phoebe  was  economical  even  in  her  dreams.  She 
had  always  had  the  picture  in  her  mind  of  their 
arrival  at  the  gate  of  her  little  old  home.  It  was 
always  towards  evening  of  a  June  day  that  they 
arrived :  everything  about  the  house  and  yard  was 
looking  its  best ;  her  mother,  proud  and  smiling, 
was  standing  at  the  gate  to  welcome  them  ;  the 
little  cavalcade  filled  the  roadway,  Barry,  hand 
some,  merry,  and  sunburned,  with  a  dog  or  two 
about  his  feet,  stooped  down,  uncovered,  to  kiss  his 


GRAY  SHINGLES  ON  A   WET  DAY.        273 

mother-in-law ;  the  man  stood  at  the  horses' 
heads  ;  the  maid  held  up  the  boy,  who  shouted  in 
delight ;  and  always  at  this  moment  passed  Mary 
Carpenter  and  Letitia  Gregg,  who  had  said  the 
bitterest  and  hardest  things  about  her. 

And  this  was  the  way  she  was  coming  home: 
outcast  and  forlorn,  and  alone  forever  but  for  the 
baby  who  lay  a  dead  weight  in  her  tired  arms ; 
the  June  evening,  the  fine  carriage,  the  attendants, 
found  their  fulfillment  in  the  damp  April  drizzle, 
the  lumbering  old  stage,  the  grizzled,  psalm-singing 
driver.  Poor  Phosbe  !  she  could  not  cry,  she  did 
not  want  to  cry.  She  was  hard  and  bitter  and 
resentful. 

She  knew  every  barn  and  hay-rick  they  passed. 
That  pump,  this  stile,  —  she  had  not  thought  of 
them  since  she  went  away,  but  they  were  as  famil 
iar  as  if  she  had  been  seeing  them  every  day.  The 
dreariness,  the  weariness,  of  it ;  and  underneath 
all  the  wound  that  had  brought  her  back  to  it. 

In  the  drive  from  the  station  to  the  village, 
Peterson's  half-witted  boy  tending  the  cattle  at 
the  farmyard  gate,  and  old  Nancy  Briggs  wrapped 
in  the  faded  plaid  shawl  that  she  remembered  so 
long,  were  the  only  human  beings  that  they 
passed.  The  village  was  silent  as  a  graveyard. 
The  "store"  door  was  shut,  but  a  mist  on  the 
panes  of  its  one  window  and  a  "  team  "  hitched 
outside  showed  that  the  tide  of  commerce  was  still 
flowing  through  the  little  hamlet.  Half  a  dozen 

18 


274  PH(EBE. 

silent,  spitting,  steaming  male  figures  were  un 
doubtedly  seated  around  its  sulky  stove.  The 
driver  stopped  at  another  rival  mercantile  house  ; 
this  was  new  since  Phoebe  went  away.  Here  the 
mail-bag  was  left;  a  small  board  over  the  door  said 
Post  Office.  The  man  stayed  a  good  while  inside  ; 
he  came  out  puffing  at  a  very  bad  cigar,  the  smoke 
of  which  floated  back  into  the  stage  for  the  remain 
der  of  the  way,  and  made  Phoebe  ill  and  angry. 

The  last  house  was  passed  that  lay  between  the 
village  and  her  old  home.  Her  heart  began  to 
beat,  and  the  tears  that  had  refused  to  come  for 
so  many  suffering  days  were  gathering  in  her 
eyes.  Beneath  all  the  revolt  at  coming  home  and 
the  certainty  of  misery  there,  there  had  been  a 
yearning  to  throw  herself  into  her  mother's  arms 
and  weep  out  her  despair.  She  knew  that  the 
comfort  would  be  short-lived  ;  that  more  wretched 
ness  than  solace  would  come  from  telling  out  her 
griefs  to  one  of  so  different  a  temperament  from 
her  own.  But  the  impulse  was  deep  as  nature 
and  old  as  Holy  Writ :  "  as  one  whom  his  mother 
comforteth." 

It  required  all  her  force  of  will  to  keep  back 
the  flood  of  tears  that  the  mere  thought  of  meet 
ing  her  mother  brought.  The  horses  climbed  the 
little  ascent  slowly ;  Phoebe  scarcely  dared  look 
out.  At  last,  with  a  jolt,  the  stage  stopped  before 
the  gate,  and  the  driver  called  out  Whoa !  in  a  loud 
voice  intended  more  to  rouse  the  inmates  of  the 


GRAY  SHINGLES  ON  A  WET  DAY.        275 

house  than  to  check  the  horses,  who  scarcely 
needed  any  invitation  to  stop. 

The  house  stood  near  the  road  ;  below  this  road, 
in  front,  the  land  dropped  away  suddenly,  and  a 
wide  stretch  of  pasture  land,  several  miles  per 
haps,  lay  out  in  view,  bounded  by  bare-looking 
hills,  now  covered  with  mist,  in  the  distance.  At 
the  right  of  the  house  lay  a  patch  of  garden ;  ad 
joining  it  the  barn  and  out-houses.  At  the  back 
of  it  the  hill  rose  so  suddenly  that  the  house  lost 
a  story  in  consequence,  and  was  built  up  against 
its  base.  The  hill  was  covered  with  bushes  and 
trees,  now  dripping  and  bare  and  brown.  The 
house  looked  very  old  and  very  small ;  it  was  un- 
painted,  and  its  gray  shingles  were  dark  with  the 
soaking  rain.  It  did  not  look  out  of  repair ;  two 
or  three  great  stems  of  vines  mounted  to  its  roof, 
and  in  summer  no  doubt  made  it  very  pretty.  A 
stone  wall  surmounted  by  a  low  paling  separated 
it  from  the  road  ;  three  or  four  steps  led  up  from 
the  road  to  the  gate,  which  was  also  low,  not  more 
than  two  feet  high.  The  shrubs  and  flower-beds 
were  perhaps  nicely  kept  in  summer;  they  were 
not  much  to  look  at  now.  A  little  path  led  to 
the  front  door,  but  it  was  evidently  unused.  A 
line  of  boards  lay  towards  the  kitchen  door,  indi 
cating  that  as  the  usual  way  of  entrance. 

The  driver  pulled  open  the  stage  door.  Phosbe, 
grasping  the  child  in  her  arms,  got  out,  giving 
a  hurried  look  towards  the  house.  No  one  had 


276  PHCEBE. 

appeared  at  the  call  of  the  driver;  everything 
seemed  so  deadly  still.  You  could  hear  the  breath 
ing  of  the  tired  horses  and  the  creaking  of  the  old 
stage  with  their  slight  motion.  She  pushed  open 
the  low  gate ;  it  sagged  and  stuck  at  a  certain 
point  as  she  remembered  it  did  when  she  was  a 
little  child.  She  hurried  up  to  the  kitchen  door 
and  opened  it  without  allowing  herself  time  to 
think  again. 

The  room  was  all  still  and  warm  and  in  order. 
Coming  down  the  little  stairway  that  opened  into 
it  was  her  mother,  who,  dazed  and  frightened  at 
the  sudden  apparition,  gave  a  sort  of  cry  and 
stopped.  Phoebe  ran  to  her,  gave  her  a  kiss,  and 
then  threw  herself  down  upon  the  lowest  step  of 
the  stairs,  and  hiding  her  face  in  the  shawl 
wrapped  round  the  baby  began  to  sob.  The 
mother,  in  terror,  began  to  cry  too,  and  moan  and 
wring  her  hands  and  ask  what  was  the  matter. 

"  Oh,  nothing  !  "  cried  Phcebe,  getting  up  and 
trying  to  master  herself ;  "  only  I  've  come  home 
to  you,  mother.  Oh,  you  must  be  good  to  me  !  " 

"  But  what '«  the  matter  ?  Why  did  you  come  ? 
Where's  Barry  ?  Oh,  my  goodness,  I  always  knew 
it  would  n't  come  to  any  good  !  Oh,  my  poor 
child,  why  would  n't  you  listen  to  me  ?  This  is 
more  than  I  can  stand.  You  must  n't  take  on  so 
unless  you  want  to  break  my  heart." 

At  this  moment  the  driver,  rather  tired  of  wait 
ing,  knocked  at  the  door,  which  stood  half  open. 


GRAY  SHINGLES  ON  A  WET  DAY.        277 

Phoebe  darted  into  the  little  bedroom  that  opened 
from  the  kitchen  at  one  side,  to  conceal  her  agita 
tion  from  the  man.  Her  mother  stood  helpless 
and  bewildered  while  he  asked  if  there  was  any 
body  to  help  him  in  with  the  trunks.  Mrs.  Hoi- 
den  said  she  did  not  know  ;  what  trunks  — 
where  ? 

"  Why,  your  girl's  trunks  ;  she  as  has  just  come 
home.  Come  out  and  look  at  'em,  if  you  don't  be 
lieve  me." 

"  I  '11  go  and  ask  Phoebe,"  said  the  mother. 

"  Oh,  mother,"  cried  Phoebe,  who  had  thrown 
herself  upon  the  bed  beside  the  baby  in  a  par 
oxysm  of  weeping,  "  pay  the  man  and  send  him 
away  !  Don't  let  him  in  here  ;  don't  let  him  see 
you're  feeling  bad.  Pay  him  and  send  him  away, 
and  let  me  be  alone  for  a  little  while." 

Thus  entreated  the  mother  went  away,  and  col 
lected  herself  enough  to  call  the  "  hired  man," 
Joe,  to  help  about  the  trunks ;  but  three  times 
she  had  to  break  in  upon  Phcebe's  passion  of 
weeping,  to  decide  where  they  should  be  put  and 
to  make  change  to  pay  the  man  the  fare. 

"  I  have  n't  got  any  change,  —  I  have  n't  got  a 
cent !"  said  Phoebe.  "  Why  can't  he  come  in 
another  time  ?  He  passes  here  two  or  three  times 
a  week.  Oh,  don't,  dont  make  me  talk  about  it 
now  !" 

Mrs.  Holden  was  so  used  to  crying  herself,  a 
puling  stream  of  tears  that  was  never  quite  dried 


278  PH(EBE. 

up,  that  she  could  not  understand  what  the  objec 
tion  was  to  being  asked  about  the  spare  room  and 
the  driver's  change  in  the  midst  of  weeping. 
Phoabe's  tears  and  hers  differed,  —  that  was  all 
that  could  be  said :  an  April  shower  and  a  mid 
winter  tempest ;  a  perennial  meadow  brook  and 
a  suddenly  swollen  mountain  torrent. 

After  the  man  had  been  paid,  and  had  got  into 
his  seat  and  gathered  up  his  reins  and  gee-upped 
to  his  horses,  and  gone  his  way  much  reflecting 
upon  the  widow's  agitation  and  the  unhappy  looks 
of  her  returning  daughter,  the  widow  herself  went 
into  the  little  bedroom  and  unwrapped  the  now 
protesting  baby  from  his  shawl,  and  moaned  over 
him  and  plied  his  mother  with  questions  about 
him,  and  kissed  him,  and  cried  feebly. 

"  Do  you  feed  him,  Phoebe.  He  's  hungry  ;  the 
poor  darling  is  hungry.  I  am  sure  he 's  hun 
gry.  Shall  I  give  him  a  little  milk  ?  Or  would 
some  farina  suit  him  better  ?  I  could  boil  it  in  a 
few  minutes,  if  you  could  hold  him  till  it 's  done. 
There,  there,  don't  cry,  petty,  don't.  Perhaps  I 
might  as  well  loosen  his  clothes  ;  something  hurts 
him  —  I  am  sure.  Dear,  dear,  it 's  so  long  since 
I  've  had  a  baby  to  look  after.  Not  since  you.  I 
almost  forget  how  to  hold  one.  Ah  me  !  I  little 
thought !  — Phoebe,  if  you  can  quiet  yourself  a  mo 
ment  to  listen  to  me ;  the  child  must  be  fed,  or 
something  done  to  pacify  him.  There  's  no  good 
in  crying  so,  Phoabe.  If  I  'd  cried  like  that  I 


GRAY  SHINGLES  ON  A  WET  DAY.        279 

should  have  killed  myself  years  and  years  ago. 
Goodness  knows,  I  've  had  enough  to  cry  about, 
but  I  try  to  control  myself,  and  that  saves  every 
body.  Think  about  your  baby,  Phoebe,  think 
about  me.  You  don't  want  to  hurt  us,  and 
you  '11  kill  us  if  you  go  on  like  that." 

Poor  Phoebe  ;  she  would  not  have  minded,  that 
moment,  if  she  had  been  told  that  she  had  killed 
her  mother  and  her  baby.  It  was  the  blackest  mo 
ment  of  her  life ;  it  was  totally  black,  and  noth 
ing  could  have  made  it  blacker  while  it  lasted. 
She  was  paying  for  the  long  strain  and  the  unnat 
ural  silence  of  the  past  eight  days.  The  discon 
tents  and  rebellions  and  complainings  of  ordinary 
lives  would  make  up  quite  as  .heavy  an  account  as 
she  paid  for  all  at  once  in  that  one  awful  hour  of 
despair.  She  was  not  generally  discontented  and 
complaining,  but  of  a  full,  sound  nature  and  very 
patient.  It  was  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  her 
mother  was  frightened,  and  gathered  up  the  baby 
and  went  out  when  she  told  her  to.  She  hovered 
about  the  door  all  the  .afternoon  and  listened,  but 
did  not  dare  even  to  turn  the  knob  or  implore  her 
to  drink  the  tea  or  eat  the  toast,  relays  of  which 
she  had  eased  her  maternal  heart  by  preparing. 
These  slow-gathering,  heavy-bursting  storms  have 
this  advantage,  that  they  get  themselves  respected 
and  in  a  measure  let  alone.  We  stay  in-doors  and 
keep  out  of  the  way  of  a  tempest,  but  in  frequent 
paltry  showers  we  arm  ourselves  and  flit  about  de 
fiantly. 


280  PECEEE. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  Phoebe  came  out  of  her 
room,  pale  and  spent.  She  took  her  baby  in  her 
arms  and  sat  down  silently  beside  the  fire.  Her 
mother  fluttered  about  and  made  ready  a  fresh 
supply  of  tea  and  toast,  prepared  the  table  for  the 
evening  meal,  and  added  whatever  was  possible 
from  her  not  very  abundant  larder.  She  did  not 
even  try  to  "  make  talk  ;  "  she  was  awed  into  si 
lence  for  once.  When  it  was  all  ready,  she  hum 
bly  offered  to  take  the  baby  and  to  keep  him 
•while  Phoebe  took  her  tea.  But  Phoebe  held  him 
on  her  arm,  and  came  to  the  table  with  him. 
When  they  sat  down  at  the  board  for  the  first  time 
for  so  long,  and  in  such  painful  circumstances,  the 
•widow's  ready  tears  overflowed.  But  they  did 
not  touch  the  source  of  her  daughter's  grief  nor 
call  hers  forth  again.  She  soothed  the  baby,  who 
fretted  a  little,  and  silently  ate  some  of  the  food 
put  before  her.  Her  mother  waited  on  her  anx 
iously,  getting  up  to  bring  this  and  that  to  her. 
She  did  not  remonstrate  or  express  gratitude,  but 
took  it  all  simply  and  did  her  best  to  eat.  After 
the  meal  was  over  she  got  up  and  tried  to  help 
her  mother  put  away  the  "  tea  things,"  but  prob 
ably  found  it  beyond  her  strength,  and  sat  down 
silently  by  the  fire  again.  The  widow  was  busy 
for  an  hour  or  two  in  matters  about  the  house. 
The  "  hired  man  "  came  in  and  helped  her  to  bring 
down  a  cradle  from  the  garret  and  make  it  ready 
for  the  baby. 


GRAY  SHINGLES  ON  A  WET  DAY.        281 

"  You  '11  sleep  with  me  to-night  ?  "  she  asked  of 
Phoebe,  hesitatingly.  "  It  '11  be  cold  for  the  baby 
up-stairs  in  your  old  room.  Joe  '11  make  the  fire, 
though,  if  you  want  it." 

"  1  don't  care ;  it  does  n't  make  any  difference 
to  me." 

After  she  had  prepared  the  baby  for  sleep,  and 
put  him  in  the  cradle,  and  seen  him  close  his  eyes 
heavily  and  finally  for  the  night,  she  came  out  and 
sat  down  by  the  fire  again.  Her  mother  sat  there 
rocking  herself  backward  and  forward.  Phoebe 
knew  she  had  to  tell  her  mother  something  of  the 
reasons  for  her  coming  home.  It  was  very  hard 
to  speak  now,  in  cold  blood,  but  there  was  no 
question  but  that  she  had  to  do  it.  If  she  could 
have  done  it  at  the  moment  when  she  first  threw 
herself  into  her  mother's  arms,  it  would  not  have 
cost  so  much. 

"  I  hope  you  don't  mind  having  me  home  again, 
mother,"  she  began,  while  they  both  sat  looking 
into  the  fire. 

"  Why,  no,  Phcebe :  it 's  been  lonely  enough 
without  you,  gracious  knows.  Only  " 

"Yes,  I  know  what  you  mean.  Well,  we  must 
n't  care  what  people  say,  and  as  long  as  I  am  doing 
what  I  know  is  right  I  don't  think  you  ought  to 
mind  about  it." 

"  But  are  you  ?  —  that 's  the  thing,"  and  the 
widow's  voice  faltered,  as  if  she  were  struggling 
with  a  fresh  supply  of  tears. 


•282  PHCEBE. 

"  Yes,  I  believe  I  am.  It 's  hard  to  talk  against 
—  Barry  —  and  I  hope  you  '11  let  this  be  once  for 
all,  and  never  say  anything  to  me  about  it  af 
terwards.  I  've  found  he  did  n't  —  feel  the  way 
he  used  to  towards  me.  There  was  somebody  that 
he  was  attached  to  from  the  time  he  was  a  boy." 

"  Powers  o'  mercy,  then  why  did  n't  he  stay  at 
home  and  marry  her,  and  leave  us  here  in  peace  ?  " 
cried  the  mother,  hotly. 

"No  matter.  He  did  n't,  and  there's  the  end 
of  it.  But  —  and  this  is  why  I  won't  go  back  to 
him  —  he  has  —  said  things  I  can't  stand  ;  he 
must  want  to  be  rid  of  me,  or  he  would  n't  have 
said  them.  Don't  let  us  talk  any  more  about  it, 
mother.  I  've  come  back  to  you,  and  I  '11  try  to 
be  a  help  to  you,  and  I  hope  you  won't  mind  the 
baby.  He's  very  good,  if  he  's  only  well.  I  can 
earn  enough  at  sewing  to  keep  him  and  me  in 
clothes  —  and — you  won't  mind  giving  us  our 
board.  You  're  getting  old,  and  you  '11  be  glad  of 
a  little  less  work.  I  've  thought  it  all  over,  and 
I  don't  see  that  there's  anything  better  can  be 
done." 

"  But,  Phoebe,"  cried  her  mother,  now  genuinely 
broken  down,  "  my  child,  I  don't  like  to  hear  you 
talk  about  it  in  that  sort  of  way.  Don't  you  know 
it 's  an  awful  thing  to  go  away  and  leave  your  hus 
band  ?  Why,  it 's  wicked.  Oh,  it  might  bring  a 
judgment  on  you.  Have  you  thought  about  it, 
have  you  prayed  about  it  ?  " 


GRAY  SHINGLES  ON  A  WET  DAY.       283 

"  Yes,"  said  Phoebe,  setting  her  teeth  together, 
"  and  it 's  done,  and  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  ii 
any  more." 

"But  y.ou  must  talk  about  it,"  moaned  the 
mother.  "  You  have  n't  told  me  anything.  You 
just  come  home,  and  say  you  won't  live  with  your 
husband  any  more,  and  that  there's  the  end  of  it. 
What  did  he  say  ?  What  does  he  say 's  the  mat 
ter  ?  How  can  you  expect  me  to  know  whether 
you  've  done  right  till  you  tell  me  all  about  it  ?  " 

"  There  is  n't  anything  more  to  tell,"  said 
Phoebe,  stolidly.  "  If  you  don't  want  me  to  stay, 
I'll  pack  my  trunk  to-morrow  and  go  and  earn 
my  living  somewhere  else.  There  are  plenty  of 
places  ;  I  should  n't  have  to  starve." 

The  widow  was  frightened,  and  began  to  dread 
another  tempest ;  she  wept,  and  hurried  to  assure 
her  daughter  that  she  was  more  than  welcome  to 
her  home,  no  matter  how  she  came. 

"  But  I  can't  help  thinking,  Phoebe  "  — 

"  Well,  try  to  help  speaking,  if  you  can't  help 
thinking,  mother,"  said  Phrebe,  getting  up  and 
going  towards  the  table.  "  Shall  I  take  this  lamp, 
or  is  there  one  outside?  " 

She  had  never  seen  Phcebe  like  this  before :  it 
was  like  having  a  child  come  back  to  you  that  did 
not  belong  to  you.  She  dissolved  in  tears,  and  sat 
rocking  herself  by  her  lonely  fire  long  after  xher 
daughter  had  gone  silently  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

OUTSIDE    THE   KITCHEN  DOOR. 

THOUGH  Phoebe  had  subdued  her  mother  and 
got  herself  let  alone  that  first  night,  it  would  have 
been  too  much  to  hope  that  she  had  made  a  per 
manent  conquest.  Weak  natures  are  the  hardest 
to  conquer,  and  in  dealing  with  them  the  stronger 
ones  are  generally  fain  to  confess  self-conquest  is 
the  only  way  to  peace.  Mrs.  Holden  had  a  fee 
ble  judgment  and  a  vehement  will.  That  this 
will  vacillated,  and  was  set  now  in  this  direction, 
now  in  that,  made  it  none  the  easier  to  get  along 
with  her.  The  widow  brooded  over  her  child's 
troubles  ;  they  were  as  her  own,  for  she  loved  her 
passionately.  She  could  no  more  have  restrained 
herself  from  advising  and  trying  to  influence  her 
than  she  could  have  made  herself  a  strong,  sensible 
woman  sur-le-champ.  After  one  night  of  weeping 
and  wakeful  ness,  she  would  tell  her,  under  protest, 
that  it  was  borne  in  upon  her  that  she  ought  to  go 
back  immediately  to  Barry.  Perhaps  before  even 
ing  she  would  have  reached  so  different  a  conclu 
sion  that  Phoebe  could  not  stay  in  the  room  and 
hear  her  bitter  reproaches  of  her  son-in-law.  She 


OUTSIDE  THE  KITCHEN  DOOR.  285 

was  wearing  herself  out,  praying,  crying,  striving 
to  see  what  they  ought  to  do  in  this  most  dreadful 
situation. 

"  Why  don't  you  stop  thinking  about  it,  mother  ? 
It 's  my  doing  ;  you  are  not  to  blame.  Just  leave 
it  to  me,  and  be  as  quiet  as  you  can.  People  have 
got  to  live  their  own  lives ;  even  their  mothers 
can't  do  it  for  them." 

"  But  their  mothers  can't  sit  still  and  see  them 
going  to  destruction.  You  '11  find  that  when  your 
baby  gets  a  little  older.  Oh,  Phoabe!  you  're  pos 
itively  unnatural  and  cruel  to  me.  You  seem  to 
forget  that  it  's  only  a  few  years  ago  that  I  was 
doing  all  for  you  that  you  're  doing  for  that  baby, 
and  slaving  for  you  day  and  night." 

"  Well,  mother,  I  did  n't  ask  you  to,  any  more 
than  the  baby  asks  me  to.  And  I  hope  I  '11  never 
throw  it  in  his  face  that  I  took  care  of  him  after 
I  brought  him  into  the  world,  or  that  I  '11  think  it 
gives  me  any  rights  over  him  after  he  's  a  man. 

"  You  '11  see  ;  it  '11  look  different  to  you  then." 

"  May  be,  but  things  generally  look  one  way  to 
me." 

Plioabe  had  been  at  home  just  three  days,  when 
a  messenger  came  to  tell  Mrs.  Holden  of  the 
serious  illness  of  her  sister,  living  on  a  farm  about 
ten  miles  away.  The  summons  was  urgent ;  the 
poor  woman  was  doubtless  near  her  end.  Mrs. 
Holden  was  dreadfully  agitated  by  the  news.  She 
could  scarcely  make  the  necessary  preparations  for 


286  PH(EBE. 

going.  She  thought  Phoebe  ought  to  go  too  and  see 
her  aunt  before  she  died.  But  Phoebe  did  not  in 
the  least  see  it  so.  Her  aunt  was  very  little  to 
her,  being  old  and  money-getting  and  narrow- 
minded.  She  was  sorry  for  her  sufferings,  but 
she  knew  she  could  do  nothing  to  alleviate  them ; 
half  a  dozen  women  were  probably  standing  around 
her  bedside  night  and  day.  It  would  be  intoler 
able  to  her  to  spend  hours,  perhaps  days,  in  the 
turmoil  of  such  a  household,  meeting  all  her  rela 
tions  for  the  first  time  since  her  trouble.  She  sim 
ply  refused  to  go  on  the  baby's  account,  and  busied 
herself  in  forwarding  her  mother's  preparations. 
Her  mother  could  not  accept  the  excuse.  Mal- 
vina  would  bring  her  three  children  ;  none  of  the 
others  had  ever  stayed  away  on  account  of  having 
babies  ;  it  would  look  unnatural. 

When  the  wagon  drove  away  with  only  her 
mother  in  it  beside  the  neighbor  who  had  been 
sent  to  fetch  her,  Phrebe  said  to  herself  it  was 
unnatural ;  but  she  knew  she  felt  a  relief  and 
breathed  freer  now  that  she  was  all  alone.  She 
was  not  glad  that  her  aunt  was  ill ;  it  gave  her  a 
feeling  of  awe  that  one  of  her  own  blood  had 
drawn  so  near  the  impenetrable  boundary.  But 
it  did  not  touch  her  affections,  and  in  the  gloom  of 
her  own  distress  it  did  not  seem  a  thing  for  des 
perate  grief  that  any  one  should  have  reached  the 
end  of  life.  And  for  her  mother,  she  felt  that  a 
change,  another  grief,  would  really  be  a  benefit. 


OUTSIDE  THE  KITCHEN  DOOR.  287 

She  had  suffered  so  much  in  watching  her  mother's 
helpless  perplexity  about  her  troubles  that  it  was 
a  relief  to  think,  for  the  time,  they  would  fall  into 
the  background. 

The  day  was  comparatively  a  peaceful  one. 
There  was  constant  occupation  for  her  in  the 
household  work  and  in  caring  for  the  baby.  She 
laid  out  her  work  for  the  spring;  she  went  up 
stairs  into  the  unused  best  room  and  threw  open 
the  windows,  and  planned  for  the  house-cleaning 
and  for  some  changes  which  her  enlarged  experi 
ences  of  decent  living  now  suggested.  The  day 
was  beautiful ;  a  sudden  spring  day  after  a  long 
course  of  damp,  raw  weather.  It  was  in  the  lat 
ter  half  of  April,  but  up  to  that  time  there  had 
been  nothing  to  give  one  thoughts  of  spring  and 
longings  to  be  out-of-doors.  The  flood  of  warmth 
and  sunshine  seemed  like  the  opening  of  heaven. 
One  panted  for  the  summer,  and  hated  the  bar 
riers  of  winter. 

After  dinner  Phosbe  put  the  baby  into  a  little 
wagon  which  Joe  had  brought  in  from  a  loft  in 
the  barn,  and  dragged  him  up  and  down  the  path 
before  the  house.  She  threw  the  windows  of  the 
kitchen  wide  open,  and  let  the  fire  die  out.  She 
had  to  loosen  the  baby's  wraps ;  April  though  it 
was,  the  heat  was  oppressive.  The  baby  blinked 
and  crowed ;  he  liked  the  sunshine,  but  it  was 
pretty  strong  for  him.  He  looked  a  little  pale ; 
high  tragedy  is  not  good  for  nursing  babies. 


288  PHCEBE. 

Phoebe  decided  for  his  sake  to  avoid  the  feelings 
of  high  tragedy,  no  matter  what  facts  were  forced 
upon  her.  She  sat  down  beside  him  on  the  step 
of  the  little  unused  porch.  How  delicious  the 
flood  of  sunshine,  how  sweet  the  still,  warm  air! 
The  grass  was  greening  in  the  little  plat  between 
the  house  and  the  gate;  the  earth  was  drying. 
The  crocuses  were  pushing  up  their  heads  in  a 
little  patch  under  the  parlor  window.  The  long 
spears  of  the  daffodils  were  thrusting  themselves 
through  the  dead  grass  and  fallen  leaves  and  bare 
shrubbery  along  the  fence.  One  saw  pink  buds 
swelling  on  the  trees  as  the  sun  shone  through  the 
naked  branches.  Phoebe  thought  almost  with  a 
sensation  of  pleasure  of  the  time  when 

"  All  this  leafless  and  uncolored  scene 
Should  flush  into  variety  again." 

The  tide  of  spring  was  bringing  a  little  hope  into 
her  heart. 

"  If  I  could  be  let  alone,"  she  thought,  as  she 
drew  a  deep  breath,  "  and  have  nothing  but  God 
and  the  baby  and  out-doors,  I  could  get  along, 
perhaps." 

The  sound  of  a  wagon  coming  up  the  little 
hill  made  her  go  quickly  into  the  house.  It  was 
only  Farmer  White  and  his  man  going  to  the 
sugar-bush,  with  an  empty  barrel  jolting  in  the 
back  of  the  wagon,  but  it  broke  in  upon  her 
dream  of  peace.  People  would  be  the  obstacles 
to  her  "  getting  along,"  she  had  known  from  the 


OUTSIDE    THE  KITCHEN  DOOR.  289 

first.  Man's  inhumanity  to  man,  intentional  or 
accidental,  seems  to  be  at  the  bottom  of  more  than 
half  our  mourning. 

The  lengthening  April  day  drew  to  its  end. 
The  sun  had  set  behind  the  far-off  hills,  but  he 
seemed  to  have  warmed  the  earth  so  fully  with 
his  all-day  shining  that  no  chill  came  on  with  the 
growing  dusk.  The  baby  was  asleep  in  his  cradle. 
Phoebe  had  eaten  her  solitary  evening  meal,  and 
Joe  had  taken  his  in  the  little  outer  kitchen.  The 
work  of  the  day  was  over.  Phoebe  threw  a  cloak 
on  her  shoulders  and  pulled  the  hood  up  over  her 
head,  and  went  out  into  the  still,  warm  twilight. 
She  left  the  door  open  that  she  might  hear  the 
baby  if  he  woke,  and  walked  up  and  down  the 
path,  and  then  wandered  off  into  the  old  orchard 
that  adjoined  the  garden.  Here  had  been  the 
playground  of  her  childhood.  Her  head  nearly 
touched  the  tops  of  one  or  two  low  old  trees  which 
she  had  considered  it  a  feat  to  climb  then.  The 
shade  had  seemad  dense  and  mysterious  to  her; 
the  rocky  side  of  the  hill  that  arose  abruptly  be 
hind  the  orchard  and  the  house  had  been  the 
boundary  to  who  can  say  what,  in  her  childish 
fancy.  And  here  her  boy  was  to  grow  up  ;  here 
drink  in  his  first  draught  of  conscious  life.  Well, 
it  was  healthy,  it  was  simple ;  it  might  be  an  hon 
est  and  honorable  home. 

As  she  wandered  aimlessly  on,  the  latch  of  the 
gate  fell.  She  heard  a  step  upon  the  board  walk, 

19 


290  PH(EBE. 

and  a  sound  as  of  some  one  knocking,  low,  at  the 
kitchen  door.  If  it  were  some  neighbor  come  to 
feast  his  or  her  curiosity,  he  or  she  might  go  away 
again.  She  felt  the  same  trouble  at  the  thought 
of  meeting  any  one  ;  she  wondered  whether  this 
feeling  would  ever  go  away,  or  whether  she  would 
grow  "  queer,"  as  the  country  people  called  it, 
as  she  grew  older,  and,  shunning  her  kind,  be 
shunned  of  them  and  held  in  ridicule  and  aver 
sion.  She  shrunk  behind  a  tree  and  watched. 
The  visitor  did  not  go  away.  It  was  too  dim  to 
see  whether  any  one  was  standing  in  the  door ; 
she  had  not  left  any  light  in  the  house.  After 
a  moment  came  a  pang  of  fear  for  the  child  ;  the 
knock  had  been  too  low  to  be  a  neighbor's  or 
dinary  visit.  She  started  towards  the  house  ;  just 
as  she  reached  the  path  she  discerned  the  tall  form 
of  a  man  standing  in  the  doorway.  He  took  a 
step  towards  her,  and  husband  and  wife  stood 
confronting  each  other. 

"  You  !  "  said  Phoebe,  huskily,  her  breath  com 
ing  quick.  It  was  too  dim  to  see  his  haggard,  worn 
face ;  she  only  heard  the  almost  harsh  tone  of  his 
voice. 

"  Yes,  why  not  ?  I  suppose  you  knew  that  I 
was  likely  to  come." 

She  did  not  speak,  and  he  resumed,  after  a  si 
lence.  "  You  know  best  what  you  went  away  for. 
This  sort  of  thing  is  a  disgrace  to  people  who  have 
any  kind  of  place  to  keep  in  the  world." 


OUTSIDE  THE  KITCHEN  DOOR.  291 

"When  they  haven't  they  don't  mind,"  thought 
Phcebe,  or  something  like  it. 

Now  Barry  had  had  a  hard  day  of  it,  not  to  say 
a  good  many  hard  days.  The  heat,  the  worry,  the 
bad  fare,  the  humiliation,  the  vulgar  people  he  had 
had  to  ask  questions  of,  had  set  his  teeth  on  edge. 
He  had  at  last  found  his  wife.  It  was  a  little  like 
the  Lost  Heir :  last  night  he  would  have  thrown 
himself  at  her  feet,  perhaps  ;  to-night  he  felt  more 
like  throwing  reproaches  at  her  head.  All  his 
self-accusation  vanished,  and  he  felt  himself  in 
jured  by  everything  she  had  done  and  by  every 
thing  she  was  doing,  especially  by  the  coldness 
and  self-control  that  she  was  showing. 

"  I  don't  know  what  excuse  you  have  to  make 
for  yourself,"  he  said.  She  was  silent.  "  But  you 
never  can  make  up  to  me  for  these  last  few  days." 

As  she  did  not  speak,  he  went  on,  harshly  : 
"  Do  you  know  how  the  world  looks  upon  people 
who  quarrel  and  who  can't  get  on  together  ?  First 
it  laughs,  a»d  then  it  sneers  at  them,  and  then  it 
turns  its  back  upon.  them.  We  have  made  our 
selves  a  laughing-stock,  and  now  we  shall  have  to 
spend  the  rest  of  our  lives  trying  to  get  people  to 
forget  our  folly." 

Poor  Barry  !  It  seemed  to  Phcebe  he  was  only 
thinking  of  what  the  world  said  about  them,  and 
not  at  all  of  any  wounded  love.  In  reality,  he 
scarcely  knew  what  he  was  saying,  he  was  so  sore 
and  angry,  so  relieved  and  so  ashamed  of  his  past 


292  PHCEBE. 

fears  and  yearnings,  and  so  fatally  wrong-headed 
in  his  treatment  of  her.  They  stood  confronting 
each  other  in  the  dusk,  silent,  for  some  minutes. 

"  I  have  come  to  take  you  back  with  me,  at 
once,"  he  broke  the  silence  by  saying  hoarsely. 

"  I  am  not  going  back,"  she  returned  slowly. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  "  —  he  began. 

"  I  mean  to  say  that  I  am  going  to  stay  here, 
or  somewhere  else,  if  it  seems  best,  and  earn  my 
own  living  as  I  can.  About  the  child,  —  I  suppose 
you  came  about  him, — you  know  the  law  gives 
him  to  me  till  he  is  seven  years  old.  I  don't  think 
you  could  get  any  court  to  let  you  have  him.  You 
care  so  much  about  what  people  think,  it  does  n't 
seem  to  me  it  would  be  wise  to  try.  I  will  do  the 
best  I  can  for  him  while  I  have  him.  I  can  teach 
him  ;  the  country  is  good  for  him.  After  that  — 
may  be  we  shan't  any  of  us  be  alive.  There  is 
no  use  in  looking  ahead  and  worrying." 

u  You  seem  to  have  made  your  plans." 

"  Why,  yes  ;  I  would  have  been  very  foolish 
not  to." 

"  Have  you  had  any  help  about  it  ?  "  he  cried, 
hotly. 

"  Take  care,"  she  said,  in  a  restrained  voice. 

"  Listen  to  me,  Phoebe,"  he  said,  firmly.  "  I 
have  come  to  take  you  back.  I  am  willing  to  over 
look  everything,  to  forgive  you,  to  treat  this  out 
rageous  episode  with  eternal  silence.  I  shall  be 
lieve  in  you  if  you  tell  me  I  can  trust  you.  All 


OUTSIDE  THE  KITCHEN  DOOR.  293 

the  past  shall  be  wiped,  out.  I  don't  know  another 
man  would  do  it  in  my  place.  You  have  the 
choice  before  you,  —  respectability  and  peace,  or 
disgrace  and  misery.  Now  choose,  once  for  all." 

"  I  have  chosen.     There  is  no  use  in  talking." 

"  Do  you  tell  me  you  refuse  my  forbearance,  my 
forgiveness  ?  " 

"Your  —  forgiveness!"  and  Phoebe's  smoth 
ered  voice  had  deeper  contempt  in  it  than  Barry 
knew  how  to  bear. 

"  Yes,  my  forgiveness.  Perhaps  women  don't 
know  what  it  is  to  disgrace  a  man  so  before  the 
world,  to  belittle  his  name  and  his  child's  by  mak 
ing  them  common  talk." 

"  You  are  angry,  Barry ;  it  is  best  not  to  talk 
any  more.  I  am  not  angry." 

"  No,  by  Heavens,  I  don't  think  you  are.  I 
think  you  are  rather  pleased  than  otherwise." 

"I'm  not  as  much  troubled  as  you  are  about 
the  opinion  of  other  people." 

"  I  think  the  standard  of  opinion  of  well-bred 
people  is  to  be  respected.  It 's  dangerous  setting 
up  for  one's  self." 

"  A  person's  heart  sets  up  for  itself  once  in 
a  while,  whether  one  will  or  no,"  thought  Phrebe 
vaguely,  but  she  did  not  say  it.  Her  silence 
seemed  to  irritate  him  more  than  anything  that 
she  had  said. 

"  I  don't  make  any  threats,"  he  said.  "  I  don't 
propose  to  tear  the  child  away  from  you  and  rip 


294  PIKEBE. 

open  this  scandal  any  further.  But  I  give  you 
the  chance  of  doing  right  by  him  and  by  me,  and 
repairing  in  a  measure  the  wrong  that  you  have 
done  us.  If  you  come  home,  we  have  probably 
both  of  us  self-control  enough  to  live  peaceably 
before  the  world,  and  get  on  as  well  as  half  the 
married  people  do,  whose  dissatisfaction  one  does 
not  hear  anything  about.  I  place  it  definitely  be 
fore  you :  Go  back  with  me  to-morrow  morning 
by  the  early  train,  and  all  will  be  right.  I  shall 
make  no  reproaches.  Refuse  to  do  it,  and  I  sail  on 
Saturday  for  Europe,  and  join  the  family  there. 
I  shall  live  abroad ;  my  life  in  this  country  would 
be  unendurable  to  me  with  this  social  stigma  on 
it.  You  can  understand  what  you  will  be  respon 
sible  for.  I  shall  not,  likely,  be  a  saint." 

Phrebe  did  not  say  what  a  more  fluent  woman 
would  probably  have  said,  —  that  she  declined  to 
save  him  on  these  terms. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  "  if  you  are  going  to  lead 
a  bad  life,  but  I  can't  help  it." 

"  I  have  told  you  that  you  can  help  it." 

A  silence.      "Well?" 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  make  me  say  things 
twice  that  you  don't  like  to  hear.  I  am  not  go 
ing  back.  Why  should  we  talk  any  more  about 
it?" 

"  Why,  indeed,"  he  said,  fiercely,  as  with  a  ges 
ture  of  throwing  something  from  him  he  turned 
away  and  strode  down  the  path. 


OUTSIDE  THE  KITCHEN  DOOR. 


295 


"  Don't  you  want  to  see  the  baby  ?  "  she  said, 
faintly. 

He  did  not  answer,  probably  he  did  not  hear. 
The  little  gate  swung  on  its  creaking  hinges,  and 
shut  her  back  into  the  old  life  alone.  The  dark 
ness  swallowed  up  Barry's  figure,  and  silence, 
such  a  silence,  settled  down  upon  the  low,  solitary 
house. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

AFTER  ALL ! 

A  YEAH  and  a  half  had  passed ;  the  second 
summer  of  Phoebe's  return  to  her  home  was  over. 
The  short  autumn  days  had  come,  one  by  one  grow 
ing  shorter,  growing  chiller,  warning  of  the  dreary 
winter  that  would  be  upon  them  soon.  Dwellers 
in  isolated  mountain  homes  do  not  look  forward 
with  zest  to  the  five  or  six  months  of  winter.  The 
men  make  their  preparations  with  very  little  en 
thusiasm  for  shoveling  snow  and  building  fires 
and  housing  cattle.  It  is  even  less  hopeful  for 
the  women  ;  their  housework  is  doubled  and  their 
liberty  curtailed.  To  the  two  lonely  women  in 
the  little  house  climbing  against  the  hill,  the  com 
ing  winter  brought  gloomy  anticipations.  The 
widow  was  growing  old,  and  the  privation  of  fresh 
air  and  the  long  housing  made  each  winter  harder. 
Phoebe  felt  the  imprisonment  with  this  uncheer- 
ful  companion  to  be  almost  insupportable.  The 
summer  days,  spent  in  wandering  about  the  si 
lent  woods  with  her  baby,  after  the  short  morn 
ing's  work  was  over,  had  been  endurable,  almost 
peaceful.  But  the  winter  brought  interminable 


AFTER  ALL!  297 

hours  of  sewing,  irruptions  of  inquisitive  neigh 
bors  from  whose  visits  she  could  not  escape,  mo 
notony  of  occupation  and  scene,  and  no  solitude. 
The  child,  too,  would  fret  at  the  confinement.  The 
first  winter  had  been  bad  enough,  when  he  was 
just  beginning  to  walk.  What  would  this  be, 
now  that  he  was  active  and  self-willed  and  "  into 
everything,"  as  his  grandmother  said.  She  was 
very  fond  of  him,  but  she  took  the  liberty  of  slap 
ping  his  hands,  and  pulling  him  out  of  "  every 
thing"  with  a  promptness  that  his  more  even- 
spirited  mother  disapproved.  There  were  just 
two  rooms  in  the  little  habitation  which  could  be 
inhabited  in  winter  with  anything  like  comfort : 
the  summer's  sitting-room  was  the  winter  kitchen  ; 
the  bedroom  opening  into  it  could  be  warmed 
with  the  same  fire. 

With  a  heavy  heart  Phoebe  had  that  day  moved 
the  baby's  crib  down  into  this  room,  where  she 
and  her  mother  and  he  were  to  sleep  during  the 
cold  weather.  The  low  room  up-stairs  could  not 
be  made  warm  enough  for  the  child.  She  had  left 
her  little  refuge  with  a  feeling  that  she  had  said 
good-by  to  herself  in  doing  it.  To  be  chained 
for  six  months  to  a  fellow-prisoner  seemed  a  fate 
many  degrees  blacker  than  solitary  confinement. 

A  temporary  respite  had  come,  however.  One 
of  her  many  sisters  had  sent  that  morning  and 
taken  the  widow  away  for  a  few  days'  visit.  Be 
fore  the  walls  of  snow  closed  in  around  them  it 


298  PIKEEE. 

was  well  that  these  old  women,  with  perhaps  not 
many  winters  left,  should  see  each  other  once 
again.  She  had  gone  with  many  regrets  for 
Phoebe's  loneliness,  for  it  was  well  understood 
Phcebe  would  not  darken  any  door  in  Maiden  if 
she  lived  to  be  a  hundred  in  it.  It  was  twilight ; 
the  little  boy,  tired  with  his  day's  play,  had  been 
put  to  sleep  in  the  old  cradle  that  he  had  almost 
outgrown.  To  have  him  near  her  as  she  sat  by 
the  fire,  she  had  dragged  the  cradle  from  its  cor 
ner  ;  occasionally  she  touched  it  with  her  foot. 
She  had  her  basket  of  work  beside  her,  but  she 
had  not  yet  lighted  the  lamp  upon  the  table.  The 
fire  was  blazing  on  the  hearth,  and  sent  a  cheer 
ful  glow  through  the  room.  She  looked  at  it  with 
affection ;  she  almost  felt  as  if  she  could  have 
endured  the  winter  with  that  to  keep  her  com 
pany.  But  it  was  only  an  autumn  pleasure ;  with 
the  real  setting  in  of  winter  would  come  the  board 
ing  up  of  the  fire-place,  the  putting  away  the  bright 
andirons,  and  the  erecting  of  a  black  monster  that 
would  bake,  boil,  roast,  and  stew  them  and  their 
"victuals,"  that  would  not  "go  out"  all  winter, 
and  that  would  probably  last  many  years  longer 
than  its  victims.  The  windows  of  the  kitchen 
would  be  stuffed  with  cotton ;  the  doors  would  be 
"  listed."  Phoebe  wondered  what  color  the  baby's 
cheeks  would  be  by  April. 

She  sat  on  a  low  chair  by  the  fire,  leaning  for 
ward  on  her  elbows;    looking  now  into  the  fire, 


AFTER  ALL!  299 

now  into  the  hooded  cradle,  now  into  vacancy. 
She  wore  a  dark  stuff  dress ;  around  her  neck  was 
tied  a  bright  red  silk  handkerchief.  She  had 
grown  rather  thinner  in  the  year  and  a  vhalf,  and 
looked  indefinably  older.  Her  skin  had  a  clear, 
healthy  tinge,  but  the  expression  of  her  eyes  was 
troubled,  and  her  mouth  had  a  firmer,  more 
"  set  "  look.  Her  rich,  heavy  hair  was  put  back 
smoothly  in  a  knot  low  in  her  neck.  She  had  no 
look  of  carelessness  in  her  dress  ;  the  room  was  in 
faultless  order  ;  whatever  she  did  she  did  well  and 
thriftily.  There  was  not  a  cent  wrong  in  the  lit 
tle  account-book  in  her  desk  beside  the  window, 
nor  a  pan  that  did  not  shine  in  the  buttery  out 
side  the  door ;  the  bread  was  sweet  that  she  had 
baked  that  day ;  the  butter  that  she  was  laying 
down  for  winter  would  bring  the  best  price  at  the 
"store."  Her  "preserves"  were  better  than  her 
mother's  had  ever  been ;  the  linen,  the  clothes, 
were  all  kept  in  better  order.  The  garden  flour 
ished  under  her  care ;  the  little  farm  was  none  the 
worse  for  her  oversight  of  it.  In  a  certain  way 
she  was  interested  in  her  work,  and  liked  to  feel 
she  was  doing  it  well.  But  there  came  times,  and 
this  was  one  of  them,  when  she  felt  too  weary  to  go 
on,  —  when,  as  people  say  sometimes,  she  did  not 
feel  as  if  she  could  put  one  foot  before  the  other. 
The  fire-light  made  the  room  cheery,  but  her 
heart  was  heavy ;  the  way  was  long,  and  to  what 
end  did  it  lead  ?  The  child  might  be  taken  from 


300  PHCEBE. 

her  ;  at  best  she  could  only  keep  him  with  her  for 
a  few  years.  She  could  not  deny  those  who  had 
a  right  in  him,  when  they  asked  for  him  to  give 
him  a  proper  education.  Her  mother's  health 
was  failing ;  it  was  dreary  with  her,  but  blood  is 
thicker  than  water,  —  it  would  be  drearier  with 
out  her.  It  was  all  pretty  dark,  whichever  way 
she  looked.  She  did  not  often  allow  herself  to  go 
over  the  past,  but  to-night  she  was  alone,  and  sat 
long  idle,  thinking  of  all  that  had  happened  and 
that  had  failed  to  happen  in  the  months  since 
Barry  had  swung  the  little  gate  shut  after  him,  on 
that  warm  April  night,  and  gone  away  from  her 
forever.  Not  a  line  had  ever  come  from  him. 
Why  should  he  have  written  ?  She  knew  nothing 
but  what  she  had  gathered  from  one  or  two  letters 
which  had  come. 

The  first,  about  two  months  after  she  had 
parted  from  Barry,  had  been  from  his  mother,  an 
earnest,  loving  appeal  to  her  to  give  up  her  wrong 
decision  and  come  back  to  him  to  save  him.  It 
was  a  letter  which  would  have  touched  her  very 
much,  if  she  could  have  felt  that  he  was  to  be 
saved  from  anything  but  his  infatuation  for  his 
cousin.  In  that  effort  she  declined  assisting.  She 
was  a  true  woman,  and  unfortunately  a  jealous 
one,  and  nothing  could  move  her  that  looked  to 
condoning  his  infidelity  of  heart.  The  letter,  she 
judged,  was  written  after  Barry's  first  meeting 
with  his  mother.  It  bore  marks  of  agitation.  She 


AFTER  ALL!  301 

did  not  answer  it  at  once.  She  never  liked  writ 
ing  ;  but  this  was  so  painful  an  effort  that  she  put 
it  off  as  long  as  possible.  Her  mother,  who  al 
ways  insisted  on  knowing  everything  that  befell 
her  fellow-prisoner,  and  who  could  not  withhold 
advice  or  abstain  from  trying  to  influence,  had  re 
vived  the  recollection  of  the  one  interview  she  had 
had  with  Mrs.  Crittenden,  and  rehearsed  every 
cruel  word.  (All  this  Phoebe  had  been  trying  to 
forget.) 

After  she  sent  her  cold  and  not  very  well  ex 
pressed  letter,  she  waited  long  months  for  an 
answer.  She  had  looked  for  one  earlier,  she  did 
not  know  why.  When  it  came,  it  was  from  Lucy, 
and  not  from  her  mother.  It  was  written  in  a 
frightened,  uncertain  way,  just  as  Lucy  would  have 
talked  if  she  had  been  compelled  to  confront  this 
sister-in-law,  who  had  got  so  far  out  of  reach  upon 
such  a  tempestuous  sea  that  she  could  understand 
neither  the  elements  nor  her.  Lucy  did  not  know, 
evidently,  how  to  address  her,  nor  what  to  talk 
about  after  she  had  told  her  that  dear  mamma 
had  received  her  letter  just  before  her  great  ill 
ness  ;  that  she  was  not  yet  well  enough  to  sit  up, 
but  when  she  was  better  she  would  write  to  her. 
They  were  still  abroad,  waiting  for  mamma  to  be 
strong  enough  for  the  journey  home.  P;ipa  had 
gone  as  soon  as  mamma  was  considered  out  of 
danger.  It  was  very  necessary  for  him  to  be  in 
New  York,  and  he  had  been  very  worried  at  be- 


302  PH(EBE. 

ing  away  so  long.  It  was  evident  poor  Lucy  did 
not  know  whether  she  ought  to  mention  Barry  or 
not,  and  that  she  had  finished  her  letter  with  the 
conviction  that  it  would  be  better  not  to  do  it,  and 
that  Mrs.  Crittenden  was  not  well  enough  to  be 
consulted.  But  before  she  sealed  it  she  had  had 
as  strong  a  conviction  in  the  other  direction,  and 
had  opened  it  to  add  a  P.  S.,  which  said  that 
Barry  was  with  them  and  was  well,  and  as  soon 
as  mamma  was  strong  enough  they  would  go  to  the 
South  of  France  with  him,  and  he  would  bring 
them  home  in  the  spring,  if  the  doctors  thought  it 
safe  and  wise. 

Phcebe  did  not  answer  this  letter  at  once ;  and 
since  her  reply  there  had  been  nothing.  It  was 
possible  to  imagine  delays  and  miscarriages  of  let 
ters,  even  to  think  that  death  had  come  to  some  of 
them,  and  that  she  was  not  considered  near  enough 
to  them  to  have  been  written  to  about  it.  Her 
mother  was  not  slow  to  tell  her  they  were  glad  to 
have  got  rid  of  her ;  that  the  first  thing  she  would 
hear  would  be  that  a  divorce  had  been  granted 
Barry  for  desertion,  and  that  he  was  married  to 
the  woman  whom  he  wanted.  It  seemed  to  give 
Mrs.  Holden  a  great  deal  of  satisfaction  to  talk  in 
this  way.  She  considered  herself  very  forgiving 
and  as  possessed  of  an  excellent  Christian  spirit. 
She  often  said  she  wished  no  ill  to  the  Crittendens, 
and  she  felt  that  that  showed  a  very  exalted  char 
acter.  The  edification  of  her  example  would  have 


AFTER  ALL!  303 

been  greater  to  Phoebe  if  she  had  not  rehearsed 
so  unendingly  the  ill  that  she  considered  they  had 
done  to  her. 

Phoebe  herself,  deep  in  feeling,  slow  in  utter 
ance,  was  not  unforgiving ;  a  great  way  down  in 
her  heart  there  was  the  germ  of  a  true  faith,  a 
holy  life.  How  did  it  get  there  ?  "  The  wind 
bloweth  where  it  listeth,"  and  the  rest.  One 
must  not  limit  the  work  to  good  counsel,  of  which 
Phoebe  had  not  had  very  much.  Nobody  had  held 
out  a  hand  to  draw  her  into  the  ark  that  seemed 
safety  to  her,  but  she  had  managed  to  get  a  pretty 
firm  grasp  of  it,  notwithstanding.  Has  not  some 
body  said  (if  nobody  has,  somebody  ought  to,  for 
it  is  true),  Let  me  compile  the  books  of  devotion 
for  a  people,  and  who  pleases  may  draw  up  their 
creeds  ?  There  was  a  little  book  that  Lucy,  on  a 
birthday  or  something,  had  given  with  much  hes 
itation  to  her  silent  sister.  It  had  red  edges  and 
crosses  on  it ;  it  would  have  frightened  Mrs.  Hoi- 
den  into  a  fit,  and  Phoebe  kept  it,  very  properly, 
very  far  back  on  a  high  shelf  in  her  room.  But 
more  than  once  every  day  she  took  it  down  and 
locked  her  door  and  said  her  prayers  out  of  it. 
This  "  Treasury  of  Devotion  "  and  her  Prayer 
Book  were  all  the  ecclesiastical  spoils  she  had 
brought  out  of  Egypt  with  her,  but  they  seemed 
to  have  been  all  she  needed  for  her  sojourn  in 
the  wilderness. 

To-night  in  the  unusual  silence  and  solitude  she 


304  PH(EBE. 

sat  idle  long.  At  last  with  a  deep  sigh  she  got 
up,  and  going  across  the  room  lighted  the  lamp 
and  put  the  shade  on  it,  and  brought  her  work 
and  sat  down  by  the  table  to  sew.  Once  she 
thought  she  heard  a  step  outside;  she  lifted  her 
head  a  moment  and  listened,  and  then  bent  it 
down  again  and  went  on  with  her  work,  silent  and 
steady. 

By  and  by  there  was  a  sound  outside,  and  then 
a  knock.  She  started  a  little ;  not  that  she  was 
nervous,  but  she  never  liked  a  knock  after  dark. 
The  place  was  lonely ;  Joe  was  gone  away  to  the 
village.  If  any  one  should  come  with  evil  pur 
pose  to  her  or  to  the  child,  what  defense  had  she  ? 
Her  hand  trembled  a  little  as  she  laid  down  her 
work  and  went  to  the  door.  She  opened  it  quite 
wide,  for  she  did  not  mean  to  show  she  had  any 
fear,  and  raising  her  eyes  looked  directly  into  the 
face  of  —  Barry. 

He  held  out  his  hand  ;  she  did  not  know  exactly 
what  she  did,  but  she  put  hers  in  it,  and  he  stooped 
down  and  kissed  her.  He  did  not  look  defiant, 
but  anxious,  thinner,  and  older  than  he  had  before. 
He  came  in,  and  she  shut  the  door  and  went  and 
sat  down  where  she  had  been  sitting.  It  was  pos 
sible  she  felt  as  if  she  could  not  stand  up  any  longer 
without  showing  how  she  trembled.  Barry,  too, 
was  not  unmoved,  though  he  came  in  slowly  and 
went  and  stood  beside  the  fire.  When  he  first 
tried  to  speak  his  voice  was  not  audible ;  after  a 


AFTER  ALL!  305 

moment  of  silence  he  commanded  it  enough  to 
say,  — 

"  You  see,  Phoebe,  I  have  come  back  again, 
though  I  believe  I  said  I  was  n't  ever  coining." 

Phoebe  sat  with  a  beating  heart,  wondering 
whether,  as  her  mother  had  been  repeating  to  her, 
he  had  come  to  tell  her  he  had  got  a  divorce  from 
her ;  she  only  said,  trying  to  speak  calmly,  — 

"  I  thought  it  likely  you  'd  want  to  see  the  baby 
after  a  while." 

"  Well,  I  did.  I  've  wanted  to  see  him  all  the 
time." 

"  He  's  asleep  now,"  she  said,  looking  at  the 
cradle.  "  Shall  I  wake  him  up  ?  He  's  been  very 
well  all  the  time,  and  he 's  grown  to  be  —  the 
nicest  little  fellow." 

"  He  always  was  that,  was  n't  he  ?  " 

"  Well,  but  he 's  so  different  now.  He  knows 
so  much.  And  he  's  so  big,  —  a  great  deal  bigger 
than  any  of  the  children  of  his  age  around." 

Phoabe's  heart  was  heavy  with  the  dread  that 
her  mother  had  been  for  a  year  and  a  half  instilling 
into  it:  was  Barry  come  to  claim  the  child  and 
show  her  that  she  had  no  right  to  him?  "I've 
taken  the  best  care  of  him  I  could,"  she  said. 
"  He  's  all  I  have,  and  I  should  die  without  him." 

And  abruptly  she  put  her  face  down  on  the  ta 
ble  and  began  to  sob.  The  sudden  meeting  had 
been  too  much  for  her.  Barry  came  over  and 
stooped  down  and  tried  to  take  her  hand. 


306  PH(EBE. 

"  I  have  n't  come  to  take  him  away  from  you, 
Phoebe,"  he  said,  in  a  husky  voice.  "  I  'm  not  a 
brute,  though  you  seem  to  think  I  am.  I  've  come 
to  ask  you  once  again  to  come  back  to  me.  Is 
there  any  use  in  asking  you  ?  " 

Phoebe  shook  her  head,  though  she  did  not  lift 
it,  and  he  kept  his  hand  upon  hers. 

"  I  can't  get  along  without  you,  though  I  've 
tried  every  way.  My  life  is  just  spoiled.  I  'd  rather 
die  than  go  on  like  this.  And  you  are  not  any 
too  happy  here,  perhaps.  Why  can't  we  make  it 
up  and  begin  again  together?  My  mother,  my 
father,  all  of  us,  entreat  you  to  come  back." 

Phoebe's  tears  were  drying  up.  She  was  wanted 
to  help  along  the  reform  of  the  prodigal  son.  She 
did  not  feel  the  same  confidence  in  the  exaltedness 
of  her  Christian  character  that  her  mother  felt 
in  hers.  She  was  afraid,  when  it  came  to  that 
thought,  that  she  was  almost  pagan.  She  could 
only  hope  that  her  salvation  did  not  depend  upon 
her  being  willing  to  reconcile  Barry  to  living 
without  his  cousin  Tartar.  She  lifted  her  head 
and  passed  her  handkerchief  across  her  eyes,  and 
put  it  in  her  pocket. 

"  I  can't  see,"  she  said,  "  how  you  can  ask  me, 
after  what  has  passed." 

"  I  can't  see  how  I  can  myself.  You  see  how  I 
must  be  in  earnest,  when  I  can  humble  myself  so 
much.  For,  Phoebe,  I  don't  want  to  say  anything 
that  you  won't  like,  but  I  can't  see  that  you  had 


AFTER  ALL!  307 

a  just  excuse  for  carrying  it  so  far.  I  can  see 
I  was  to  blame  in  a  good  many  ways.  I  can  un 
derstand  you  resented  what  I  said  that  day ;  but 
if  you  'd  loved  me  it  would  not  have  been  im 
possible  for  you  to  forgive  —  just  a  fit  of  jeal 
ousy." 

The  color  was  coming  and  going  in  her  face,  and 
she  drew  away  her  hand  as  he  went  on  speaking. 
He  let  it  go,  and  turned  to  the  mantelpiece  again 
and  leaned  against  it. 

"I  don't  want  to  justify  myself,  Phoebe,"  he 
went  on.  "  I  'm  ready  to  be  as  humble  as  a  man 
can  be.  I  am  only  here  to  plead  with  you  to  come 
back,  and  to  forgive  me  whatever  I  've  done  wrong 
or  whatever  you  think  I  've  done  wrong.  I  know 
I  went  away  to  Europe  selfishly  ;  it  was  not  the 
thing  for  me  to  go,  leaving  you  so  lonely.  But 
when  I  came  back  —  and  I  'd  been  counting  the 
days  —  you  could  not  forgive  me.  You  were  as 
cold  as  ice.  You  threw  me  back  so.  I  was  trying 
to  find  some  reason  for  it.  I  have  seen  that  I 
found  the  wrong  one.  I  ask  your  forgiveness  for 
—  being  jealous  of  Peyton.  It  is  not  easy  for  me 
to  say  a  thing  like  that,  Phoebe." 

"I  am  sure,  Barry,  you  know —  There  is  no 
use  in  talking.  If  it  had  been  only  that ! " 

"  Well,  what  under  heavens  was  it,  if  it  was 
not  that?  I  don't  know  another  thing  Phoebe.  I 
swear  to  you  I  never  have  been  able  even  to  con 
jecture  anything  else  that  you  could  magnify  into 


308  PHCEBE, 

a  cause  for  quarrel  with  me.  That  -was  bad 
enough.  What  I  said  that  morning  was  unjusti 
fiable,  but  I  thought  you  might  have  put  it  down 
to  the  right  cause.  I  have  felt  bitter  and  resent 
ful,  Phoebe,  and  have  only  come  back  because  I 
can't  keep  away,  — because  I  love  you  so  much  I 
can't  be  happy  without  you.  I  have  felt  bitter 
and  resentful  that  you  could  be  so  unrelenting  for 
so  small  an  injury.  For  a  hasty  word,  it  isn't 
quite  the  thing  to  ruin  a  man's  home  and  break 
up  everything.  If  I  had  done  anything  that  you 
could  lay  your  hand  upon  and  charge  me  with  "  — 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  Phosbe,  getting  vip  and 
standing  with  her  hand  upon  the  table,  leaning  a 
little  towards  it,  and  speaking  slowly,  —  "it  seems 
to  me  a  strange  sort  of  —  thing  —  to  say  this  to 
me,  Barry,  for  you  must  know." 

"  Must  know  what  ?  Phosbe,  speak  plainly. 
Before  Heaven,  I  tell  you  I  know  nothing  more 
than  I  have  told  you  that  would  give  you  the 
smallest  reason  to  inflict  on  me  what  you  have  in 
flicted.  I  know  nothing  that  any  woman  might 
n't  forgive  after  a  half  hour's  fit  of  crying." 

"  See  if  a  woman  could  forgive  this  after  a  half 
hour's  fit  of  crying,"  said  Phoebe,  with  a  dark  flame 
burning  in  her  eyes,  turning  with  a  swift  move 
ment  to  the  old  desk  beside  the  window,  and  bend 
ing  down  to  unlock  it.  Her  hand  shook  no  longer. 
A  sort  of  still  strength  seemed  to  carry  her  for 
ward,  as  it  had  carried  her  the  day  she  walked 


AFTER  ALL!  309 

steadily  out  of  her  husband's  house,  leaving  it  in 
order.  She  took  a  paper  from  the  desk,  and  pull 
ing  it  out  of  the  envelope  handed  it  to  him,  with 
her  eyes  fixed  on  his  face.  He  took  it  eagerly, 
read  it  perplexedly,  re-read  it ;  but  there  was  no 
sign  of  agitation  on  his  face. 

"  It 's  Tartar's  writing,"  he  said. 

Phoebe,  white  to  the  very  lips,  looked  at  him 
silently.  He  stretched  out  his  hand  for  the  en 
velope,  which  she  gave  him ;  studied  it  for  a 
moment ;  glanced  again  at  the  note,  then  at  the 
date,  then  at  Phoebe ;  caught  the  tragic  look  on 
her  face,  exclaimed,  — 

"  You  don't  mean  that  you  thought  "  —  and 
then  burst  into  laughter  that  rang  through  the 
little  house.  He  threw  himself  into  the  chair  be 
side  the  table,  and  laughed  and  almost  sobbed.  If 
he  had  been  a  woman  you  would  have  talked  about 
hysterics.  He  buried  his  face  on  his  crossed  arras, 
and  tried  to  hide  the  tears,  perhaps,  and  to  sub 
due  the  laughter.  Phoabe,  meanwhile,  with  whiter 
face  and  darker-burning  eyes,  drew  back  from 
him,  and  did  not  speak.  "  Those  miserable 
theatricals  ! "  he  cried,  lifting  his  head  at  last. 
"  Phoebe,  you  poor  girl,  you  most  silly  child, 
you  don't  tell  me  this  was  at  the  bottom  of  all 
your  trouble  !  This  —  oh,  it  is  n't  possible  that 
so  much  misery  could  come  from  anything  so 
paltry  !  Don't  you  see  —  why,  how  could  you  ever 
have  helped  seeing  —  why,  there 's  the  date !  You 


310  PH(EBE. 

couldn't  have  thought  Tartar  was  such  an  utter 
fool  as  that  —  and  I.  Well,  upon  my  word, 
Pho3be,  you  '11  have  to  be  the  one  to  ask  forgive 
ness  now." 

And  he  got  up  and  went  to  her  to  take  her  in 
his  arms.  'But  she  held  away  from  him,  and  said 
with  coldness,  but  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  — 

"  I  don't  understand ;  I  don't  see  what  there 
is  so  much  to  laugh  about." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  earnestly,  "  I 
did  n't  mean  to  laugh.  I  believe  it  is  the  relief 
that  makes  me  feel  like  laughing,  as  well  as  the 
awful  absurdity  of  such  a  mistake  making  such 
trouble  between  people.  Where  did  you  find  the 
paper  ?  Did  I  leave  it  at  the  house  ?  " 

"  It  was  in  your  desk,"  she  answered,  looking 
away. 

"  I  used  to  empty  my  pockets  every  two  or 
three  days  of  all  the  letters  in  them.  I  suppose  I 
stuffed  this  in  among  the  rest.  How  well  I  re 
member  now  about  Tartar's  writing  it !  It  was 
the  morning  before  we  were  to  play.  As  I  was 
going  down  the  stairs,  I  recollected  that  I  had  n't 
written  out  the  note  I  was  to  read,  and  that,  de 
pending  upon  reading  it,  I  had  n't  committed  it 
to  memory.  I  was  in  a  great  hurry,  and  I  called 
up  to  Honor  to  write  it  for  me  before  night. 
Honor  was  in  one  of  her  pets,  and  said  she  had 
her  hands  full  with  learning  her  own  part,  and 
that  I  could  write  mine  for  myself.  I  answered 


AFTER  ALL!  311 

a  little  sharply,  for  I  was  late.  Tartar  called 
down  to  me  over  the  stairs  not  to  mind ;  she  'd 
do  it  for  me.  And  when  I  came  home  at  night, 
I  found  it  on  my  dressing-table,  waiting  for  me. 
I  remember  I  thought  it  was  so  good-natured  of 
Tartar,  who  is  apt  to  have  her  caprices  as  well 
as  Honor.  It's  insupportable  to  think  of  such  a 
thing  as  that,  such  an  accident  of  temper,  doing 
all  this  mischief,  influencing  all  our  lives.  Talk 
of  a  Providence  !  " 

He  strode  up  and  down  the  room  a  few  times, 
till  he  had  got  himself  a  little  under  control,  and 
then  came  back  to  Phoebe,  who  stood  as  if  turned 
into  stone. 

"  You  blame  me,"  she  said,  as  he  paused  before 
her. 

"  I  don't  blame  you,  exactly,  but  I  think  you 
might  have  known  me  better." 

"  How  could  I  know  you  ?  "  she  cried.  "  You 
never  used  to  talk  to  me.  That  summer  you 
grew  all  absorbed  in  business,  and  in  winter  all 
in  pleasure ;  and  you  stayed  away,  and  I  saw 
from  a  great  many  things  that  they  had  wanted 
you  to  marry  Tartar  —  and  —  you  can't  deny  that 
you  were  very  fond  of  her" 

"  Fond  of  her  !  Yes,  as  a  cousin.  But  I  never 
wanted  to  marry  her,  nor  she  to  marry  me.  I  am 
willing  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Phoebe.  I  thought 
always  that  she  liked  me,  and  that  I  could  have  had 
her  if  I'd  wanted  her,  and  it  flattered  my  vanity 


312  PH(EBE. 

to  think  so.  I  found  out,  that  time  she  was  at 
my  father's,  just  after  we  came  home,  that  it  was 
all  a  mistake,  and  that  she  'd  never  cared  for  any 
body  but  —  a  very  different  man  from  me.  The 
discovery  mortified  me  a  little,  but  we  've  always 
kept  good  friends,  and  latterly  it 's  drawn  us  to 
gether  very  much,  for  she  's  anything  but  happy. 
You  see,  Phoebe,  nothing  could  have  been  further 
from  the  truth  than  your  suspicions,  —  nothing." 

"  Not  half  so  far  as  yours,  if  you  will  think 
about  it." 

"  There  's  no  use  in  going  over  that.  I  've  asked 
your  pardon,  and  it  ought  to  end  it.  But  if  you  '11 
let  me  say,  Peyton's  conduct  to  us  all  shows  that 
something  has  changed  him  very  much  ;  I  can't 
say  it  was  entirely  unreasonable  for  me  to  doubt 
him.  A  man  who  could  cut  himself  off  from  all 
his  friends,  break  up  such  a  business  as  he  had 
worked  up  for  himself,  and  go  away,  without  an 
explanation,  to  live  the  life  of  a  rough  frontiers 
man  in  a  strange  country,  must  have  some  flaw 
somewhere  in  his  character." 

"  Poor  Peyton,"  said  Phoebe,  in  a  faltering 
voice,  —  "  has  he  done  that  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Barry,  coldly.  "  And  you  can't 
much  wonder  at  me.  I  've  never  seen  him,  and 
he  won't  even  answer  when  I  write  to  him.  It 's 
no  harm,  perhaps,  telling  you,  but  he  's  treated 
Tartar  abominably.  The  poor  girl  has  been  so 
ill.  I  doubt  whether  she  '11  ever  be  quite  well 


AFTER  ALL!  313 

again.  She  'd  always  been  very  sharp  and  pep 
pery  with  him, —it's  her  nature,  and  she  can't 
help  it ;  but  her  feeling  for  him  is  the  deepest 
you  can  fancy.  She  went  abroad  with  us  from 
a  sort  of  pique,  I  think.  They  'd  had  some  little 
tiff  or  other.  But  when  she  got  there  she  was 
so  deadly  homesick  nothing  but  her  pride  kept  her 
from  starting  directly  back  again.  I  knew  some 
thing  by  that  time  of  what  was  going  on,  and 
she,  trusting  to  some  assurance  I  had  made  her 
of  what  I  thought  his  feelings  were,  sent  back  by 
me  a  little  gift  for  him,  and  a  note  that  I  suppose 
said  a  good  deal  in  a  suppressed  way.  I  don't 
know  how  long  it  was  before  he  answered  her  at 
all.  But  when  he  did  —  well,  it  just  killed  her. 
She  '11  never  get  over  it.  I  've  seen  the  letter, 
and  it  was  simply  brutal.  There 's  no  use  in  talk 
ing,  Phoebe.  A  man  who  could  treat  like  that  a 
woman  who  had  shown  she  cared  for  him  could 
do  anything  and  everything.  It 's  shaken  my 
faith  in  human  nature.  I  had  never  had  a  friend 
that  was  as  much  to  me  as  Peyton  Edwards.  I 
should  as  soon  have  thought "  — 

"  Oh,  Barry  !  "  cried  Phoebe,  hiding  her  face  in 
her  hands.  "I  —  want  to  tell  you  —  something." 

"  I  'in  not  sure  that  I  want  to  hear  it,"  he  said, 
jealous  suspicions  very  easily  awaking  into  life 
again. 

"  Oh,  but  you  must  n't  make  it  any  harder  for 
me,"  she  said,  laying  one  hand  upon  his  arm,  and 


314  PH(EBE. 

•with  the  other  covering  her  face.  "Promise  — 
promise  me  that  you  '11  forgive  me  "  — 

"  I  shan't  promise  anything,"  he  said  coldly, 
stepping  back,  but  she  kept  her  hold  upon  his  arm. 

"  I  know  you  '11  be  angry,  Barry  —  and  I  am 
more  sorry  than  I  can  tell  —  but  it  all  came  about 
without  my  knowing  that  I  was  going  to  do  any 
thing  that  would  have  so  much  influence  upon 
other  people." 

Barry  by  this  time  was  as  white  as  she  was ; 
he  would  have  shaken  off  her  hand,  but  that  she 
kept  a  strong  grasp  upon  his  sleeve. 

"I  —  I  showed  Peyton  that  note  "  — 

"  What  note  ?  " 

"The  paper  —  the  one  I've  just  showed  you." 

"  You  did  !  I  think  you  might  have  had  better 
business.  Well  ?  " 

"  And  it  was  —  just  as  bad  to  him  as  it  was  to 
me.  Barry  —  it  is  that  that  has  done  it  all  —  I 
never  can  be  ashamed  enough  "  — 

"  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me,  Peyton  thought 
Tartar  had  written  that  to  me  ?  " 

"How  could  he  help  thinking  so  —  any  more 
than  I  could  ?  He  never  seemed  to  doubt ;  and, 
Barry,  if  you  '11  think  a  minute  you  '11  see  it  was 
no  wonder.  Tartar  and  you  were  always  inti 
mate  ;  you  were  forever  staying  in  the  city  all 
that  winter,  and  seeing  her  every  day  ;  she  left 
everything,  and  went  away  to  Europe  with  you 
all  at  a  minute's  warning.  How  do  you  suppose 


AFTER  ALL!  315 

—  people  feel  —  that   are   left   alone   that  way  ? 
They  have  a  good  deal  of  time  to  think,   and  it 
is  n't  strange  if  they  don't  always  think  right." 

"  Oh,  Phoebe  !  "  he  cried,  with  a  groan.  "  It 's 
a  miserable  business.  Four  people  made  so 
wretched,  a  year  and  a  half  of  such  unhappiness, 
the  breaking  of  so  many  plans,  the  upsetting  of 
business  interests,  family  comfort,  the  scandal, 
the  disgrace,  —  and  all  for  what  ?  Because  that 
little  minx  of  an  Honor  would  n't  do  as  she  was 
asked  —  and  because  "  — 

"  Because  I  could  n't  trust  you,  I  suppose !  " 
and  Phoebe  began  to  cry,  burying  her  face  in  her 
hands.  "  Oh,  I  hope  —  the  baby  —  '11  never 
know —  anything  about  it  "  — 

"  Well,  we  won't  tell  him,  Phoebe,"  said  Barry, 
putting  his  arm  around  her.  "  We  've  been  a 
pair  of  fools,  —  I  mean  I  have  been  a  fool ;  I 
don't  pretend  to  say  what  anybody  else  has  been, 

—  and  all  that  we  can  do  about  it  is  to  be  wiser 
for  the  future." 

"  And  I  suppose  you  think  that  will  be  easy," 
said  Phoebe,  lifting  up  her  head  and  wiping  away 
her  tears.  "  But  for  me  —  I  am  afraid  it  won't 
be  —  very." 

"  Why,  what 's  to  stand  in  the  way  of  it  ?  "  he 
said,  sitting  down  beside  her  and  drawing  her  close 
to"  him.  He  seemed  not  to  be  thinking  very  much 
of  what  she  said  now,  but  to  be  devouring  her 
with  his  eyes,  and  feeling  most  of  all  that  he  had 


316  PH(EBE. 

got  her  in  his  arms  again.  She,  however,  had 
something  to  say,  and  she  said  it  with  her  face 
against  his  shoulder  and  her  hands  before  her 
eyes. 

"I  believe  that,  to-morrow  —  I  should  be  un 
happy  —  if  I  saw  you  pleased  that  other  people  — 
thought  that  you  were  handsome  "  — 

"  Well,  you  won't  be  troubled  that  way  much," 
he  said,  laughing  and  kissing  her  hair,  for  he 
could  not  get  at  her  face.  "I  don't  believe 
you  've  looked  at  me,  Phoebe,  or  you  'd  see  I 
was  n't  very  dangerous  nowadays." 

But  Phoebe  would  not  look  ;  ifc  had  cost  her  a 
good  deal  to  make  her  small  confession,  and  she 
preferred  to  have  her  hair  kissed  and  to  feel 
Barry's  arms  around  her  to  looking  in  his  face 
and  seeing  the  ravages  of  time,  and  possibly  a  lit 
tle  lurking  smile  about  her  jealousy. 

"  You  have  n't  seen,"  he  said,  "  what  a  miser 
able-looking  fellow  I  am,  and  you  don't  know,  I 
suppose,  how  near  I  've  been  to  being  no  fellow  at 
all.  This  time  two  months  ago  they  thought  it 
was  all  over  with  me.  Feel  how  thin  my  cheeks 
are,"  and  he  took  her  hand  and  laid  it  on  his  face. 

"  You  have  been  ill  ?  "  she  said,  startled,  lifting 
her  head  and  looking  at  him.  "  Oh,  Barry  I " 
she  cried,  throwing  her  arms  around  his  neck  nnd 
bursting  into  tears,  "and  you  never  sent  for 
me!" 

"  Considering  that  I  should  have  been  dead  six 


AFTER  ALL!  317 

times  over  before  you  could  have  got  to  me,  and 
that  I  was  beyond  being  consulted,  and  that  you 
probably  would  n't  have  come  if  you  had  been  sent 
for,  I  don't  think  you  need  reproach  me  very 
much.  Such  as  I  am  I  'm  here,  and  that  ought 
to  be  enough  for  you." 

"  What  was  the  matter  with. you?  How  long 
were  you  ill,  and  who  took  care  of  you  ?  " 

"If  I  said  Tartar,  you  know  you  wouldn't  like 
it." 

"No,  I  shouldn't,"  said  Phoebe,  growing  crim 
son,  and  taking  her  arms  away  from  his  neck. 
He  made  amends  by  getting  his  much  firmer 
round  her,  and  by  holding  her  so  tight  against  him 
that  he  could  feel  her  every  breath. 

"  You  are  —  a  jealous  woman." 

"  You  knew  that  before,"  she  said,  trying  to 
get  away  from  him. 

"  No,  by  heavens,  I  did  n't.  I  thought  you  were 
too  quiet  to  get  jealous." 

"  Being  quiet  does  n't  help  things,"  she  said. 

"  No,  it  seems  not.  Well,  about  Tartar  taking 
care  of  me.  If  she  had  n't  I  probably  should  n't 
have  been  here.  For  we  've  had  the  most  infer 
nal  time  of  it.  My  mother  and  Honor  last  spring 
came  down  with  a  fever,  that  they  'd  picked  up  in 
Naples  probably,  just  as  we  were  getting  ready  to 
come  home.  Tartar  was  barely  up  after  her  own 
illness  of  the  winter,  but  my  mother  was  so  ill  she 
and  Lucy  had  to  forget  themselves  in  looking 


318  PH(EBE. 

after  her  and  Honor.  They  both  pulled  through ; 
but  we  were  all  pretty  well  used  up,  and  before 
the  invalids  were  fit  to  start  for  home  I  was  taken 
with  I  suppose  very  much  the  same  sort  of  a  fever. 
It  had  been  longer  in  developing,  and  it  played 
the  very  deuce  with  me  when  it  did  develop. 
Lucy  had  by  this  time  got  so  run  down  herself 
she  was  of  hardly  any  use  at  all ;  and  if  it  had  n't 
been  for  Tartar,  as  I  said,  Heaven  knows  what 
would  have  become  of  me.  Come,  Phoebe,  I  hope 
you'll  forgive  her.  Aren't  you  willing  to  accept 
me  as  a  gift  from  her  ?  It  was  n't  any  trifle, 
those  two  months  of  nursing,  two  thirds  ill  her 
self,  poor  girl."  • 

"  People  in  Europe  generally  send  for  a  Sister 
of  Mercy,  when  they  're  ill  in  a  story-book." 

"  Well,  I  was  n't  ill  in  a  story-book,  but  in  a 
cursed  little  Italian  town,  where  you  could  n't 
have  got  a  Sister  of  Mercy  to  save  your  soul  (or 
nurse  your  body).  Now,  Phoebe,  do  the  hand 
some  thing.  Tell  me  you  forgive  Tartar  for  hav 
ing  known  your  husband  before  you  did,  and  that 
you  thank  her  for  saving  his  life,  and  that  you  're 
prepared  to  love  her  like  a  sister." 

He  kissed  her  and  kissed  her,  and  did  not  seem 
to  care  what  he  said  himself  or  what  she  answered 
him  as  long  as  he  held  her  in  his  arms.  But 
Phoebe,  more  earnest,  could  not  consent  to  dry  her 
tears.  "  You  seem  to  think  it 's  all  over.  But 
I  've  been  too  unhappy  to  believe  that." 


AFTER  ALL!  319 

"  You  have  n't  been  any  more  unhappy  than  I 
have,"  he  said,  a  little  more  seriously.  "  But  I  'm 
inclined  to  think  we  won't  be  any  the  worse  for 
it.  We  began  life  wrong,  Phoabe,  God  forgive 
us  !  Have  n't  we  wiped  out  the  score  a  little,  all 
these  two  or  three  years  of  misery?  Come,  there  's 
no  use  talking  about  it." 

"  Yes,  there  is  use,"  said  Phoebe,  with  tears. 
"  Oh,  Barry,  it's  so  hard — to  look  at  just  — 
sins." 

"  Well,  it  is  n't  the  pleasantest  kind  of  contem 
plation,  I  know,"  said  Barry,  with  a  sigh.  "  The 
fact  is,  Phosbe,  I  don't  like  to  look  back.  I  think 
I  was  about  as  well  equipped  to  go  to  the  devil  as 
any  young  fellow  I  know.  If  I  'd  turned  wrong  at 
a  certain  point  in  my  life,  Heaven  knows  where  I 
should  have  brought  up.  I  'm  not  much  to  brag 
of  now.  But,  zounds,  if  I  had  had  my  swing !  " 

He  released  Phoebe,  and  walked  two  or  three 
times  across  the  room.  "  It  makes  one  shudder," 
he  said,  "  to  look  down  the  precipices  <one  just 
has  n't  slipped  over.  I  don't  see,  though,  how  my 
mother's  son  could  have  got  so  deuced  near  the 
edge." 

"  Phoebe,  remember  this,"  he  said,  stopping  be 
fore  her :  "  whatever  remnant  of  happiness  we 
have  now  we  owe  it  to  my  mother.  In  our  first 
desperation  and  misery  I  doubt  if  I  should  ever 
have  had  courage  to  do  right  but  for  the  help  that 
I  know  she  made  my  father  hold  out  to  me.  He 


320  PH(EBE. 

alone  would  have  cowed  me.  I  was  afraid  of  the 
world,  and  he  was  on  the  world's  side.  I  knew  by 
instinct  what  side  she  was  on,  though  she  was  too 
pure-minded  ever  to  have  named  to  me  the  sin 
that  I  had  fallen  into.  The  thought  of  her  al 
ways  helped  me.  You  must  love  her,  Phoebe. 
She's  better  worth  it  than  I  am,  and  I  know  you 
love  me."  Then  more  lightly,  "  But  I  want  to  tell 
you  one  thing  more  :  I  believe  I  am  discharged 
cured  in  the  matter  of  caring  what  people  think." 
"  I  'm  sure  I  'm  glad  of  that,"  said  Phoebe,  sim- 

pty- 

"It 's  lucky,"  he  went  on,  "  for  we  '11  probably 
never  have  money  enough  to  make  people  respect 
ful  to  us  on  that  account,  and  I  don't  think  we  've 
behaved  ourselves  so  as  to  make  them  respectful 
to  us  on  any  other.  We  '11  just  live  for  ourselves 
and  the  boy,  and  all  that." 

"  All  that"  was  probably  meant  to  cover  duty, 
the  service  of  God,  loftiness  of  aim,  and  unworld- 
liness  ;  at  least,  so  Phoebe  understood  it,  and  was 
satisfied. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 
IN  MY  LADY'S  CHAMBER. 

IT  was  near  midnight :  the  bell  was  ringing  in 
the  belfry  of  the  not  very  distant  church.  Mrs. 
Crittenden,  lying  on  the  sofa  in  her  little  dressing- 
room,  heard  the  door  close  and  the  sound  of  voices 
die  away  below  the  window  as  the  last  ones  of  the 
family  went  out  to  the  midnight  celebration.  First 
Phoabe  and  Barry  went,  then  Honor  and  her  young 
English  lover,  then  Tartar  and  Peyton  Edwards, 
and  lastly  Lucy  and  her  father. 

They  were  all  again  at  Marrowfat,  and  the 
blinds,  dingy  with  the  dust  of  two  years,  were 
again  open,  and  lights  shone  from  the  windows. 
There  had  been  a  good  deal  for  Lucy  to  do,  but  it 
was  well  for  Lucy  to  be  busy,  particularly  as  no 
amount  of  business  ever  damaged  her  serene  tem 
per.  There  had  been  the  house  to  open,  new  ser 
vants  to  get,  the  whole  machinery  to  put  in  motion 
again.  The  Christmas  party  now  assembled  was 
not  inconsiderable  for  a  house  just  on  its  feet,  and 
for  such  a  young  housekeeper.  Barry  and  Phoebe, 
the  boy  and  his  nurse,  Aunt  David,  Tartar  and 
Peyton  Edwards,  had  come  from  the  city  by  the 
21 


322  PHCEBE. 

six  o'clock  train ;  the  young  Englishman  had  ar 
rived  earlier,  and  was  in  a  sense  a  permanent 
guest.  Honor  was  looking  very  pretty  ;  her  hair 
had  been  cut  short  after  her  Italian  fever,  and  was 
coming  out  in  delightful  little  curls.  Her  eyes  had 
a  soft  and  shy  expression,  and  she  went  about  in 
a  dream  of  bliss.  Naturally  she  was  not  very  use 
ful  to  Lucy  in  the  management  of  the  house  and 
the  entertaining  of  the  visitors  ;  except,  of  course, 
the  visitor  with  the  blonde  mustache  and  the 
many-jointed  name. 

It  was  a  still  night,  very  light,  but  with  no  moon 
or  stars  that  one  could  see ;  there  was  a  deep  but 
well-trodden  snow  on  the  ground  ;  the  air  was  not 
sharp,  though  not  mild  or  damp.  You  could  hear 
sounds  very  far  off;  Mrs.  Crittenden  almost 
thought  she  heard  the  music  swell  after  the  bell 
stopped  ringing. 

She  had  had  much  experience  in  imagining  how 
scenes  and  people  looked  that  she  was  not  per 
mitted  to  see,  and  she  was  likely  to  have  much 
more  as  the  years  went  on,  for  it  did  not  seem  prob 
able  that  she  would  ever  again  go  far  beyond  the 
limits  of  her  own  room.  She  was  told  that  there 
was  great  reason  for  surprise  that  she  was  still  in 
the  land  of  the  living,  and  that  she  need  never 
look  again  to  be  in  the  ranks  of  the  working  and 
enjoying.  She  had  accepted  the  decree,  and  had 
settled  herself  into  the  life  that  lay  before  her  with 
silent  fortitude. 


IN  MY  LADY'S  CHAMBER.  323 

She  knew  when  her  active  life  got  its  death 
blow :  that  night  when  she  watched  the  stars  out 
in  this  same  room.  The  very  springs  of  her  being 
seemed  to  have  been  broken  by  that  blow.  She 
had  never  been  a  well  or  strong  woman  since  ;  she 
had  just  been  going  down,  down,  one  illness  after 
another,  till  she  had  come  to  the  not  uncommon 
lot  of  a  "  confirmed  invalid."  Too  common  ;  like 
the  Egyptian  plague,  there  seems  scarcely  a  house 
where  there  is  not  one  dead,  —  dead  to  pleasure, 
to  active  duty,  to  natural,  buoyant  feelings.  In 
our  rushing,  tumultuous  modern  life,  perhaps  it  is 
necessary  for  some  souls  to  be  stretched  on  the 
rack  for  the  world  that  will  not  pause  to  pray 
for  itself;  that  the  apostleship  of  suffering  be  laid 
on  some  elect  ones.  But  it  is  sometimes  impos 
sible  not  to  faint  at  their  tribulations  for  us  ;  it 
requires  faith  to  see  that  by  their  bonds  we  are  to 
be  partakers  of  their  grace  ;  it  is  hard  to  accept 
for  our  dear  martyrs  what  they  have  accepted  for 
themselves.  All  that  we  now  see  of  suffering  we 
see  through  a  glass  darkly ;  when  the  last  word 
is  spoken  of  that  gospel,  we  shall  change  our  esti 
mates  of  its  value,  very  likely.  "  There  is  only 
one  power  against  sin,  and  that  is,  suffering. 
JESUS  CHRIST  has  taught  us  that  love  alone  is  not 
sufficient." 

To  the  eyes  of  those  around  her  Mrs.  Crit'tenden 
was  a  serene,  even  a  cheerful  sufferer  ;  when  there 
were  no  eyes  upon  her,  as  to-night,  the  cheerfulness 


324  PHCEEE. 

went,  though  rarely  the  serenity.  She  could  never 
cease  to  love,  almost  to  long  for,  God's  gifts  of 
health  and  bright  social  life,  and  the  power  to  en 
joy  nature,  what  Phoebe,  in  her  contracted  vocabu 
lary,  would  have  called  "  out-doors."  She  had  an 
eager  mind  and  keen  senses  ;  she  was  not  the  sort 
of  woman  who  easily  sinks  into  helplessness  ;  she 
was  the  last  person  to  take  kindly  to  a  sofa  and 
bromide  of  potassium.  Her  steps  downward  she 
had  taken  with  a  clear  mind  and  a  strong  abhor 
rence  of  her  fate.  "  If  it  be  possible  "  — 

But  it  was  not  possible  ;  and  when  she  reached 
the  last  step  and  was  at  the  bottom  and  was  shut 
into  her  dim  cell,  where  not  a  ray  of  earthly 
hope  could  penetrate,  there  was  a  desperate  re 
volt,  an  hour  of  darkness ;  and  then  one  of  those 
miracles  of  grace  began  which  are  the  despair  of 
materialists  and  the  edification  of  supernatural- 
ists.  Intense  pain,  alternated  with  languor  inex 
pressible,  and  deprivation  of  all  life's  healthy 
pleasures  do  not  seem  to  the  candid  carnal  mind 
the  elements  out  of  which  to  form  a  strong  faith, 
a  cheerful  temper,  and  "a  good  understanding." 
That  this  unlikely  result  was  in  evidence  daily  and 
hourly  in  the  Crittenden  family  no  one  could 
deny. 

Her  life  was  lonely  and  high.  The  ill  are  al 
ways  lonely :  it  is  "  a  strange  land  "  upon  which 
they  have  entered  ;  no  one  goes  with  them,  and 
they  have  to  learn  its  speech  and  laws  for  them- 


IN  MY  LADY'S   CHAMBER.  325 

selves.  Lucy  stood  closest,  and  went  farthest  with 
her.  But  even  she  could  not  go  far.  She,  with 
healthy  senses,  could  see  the  moonlight  and  the 
sunlight,  and  smell  the  evening  breeze  as  it  blew 
across  from  the  hills.  She  could  read  with  zest, 
eat  with  enjoyment,  sleep  with  profound  forget- 
fulness,  move  with  the  freedom  of  youth  and 
health.  And  yet  her  heart  was  full  of  love  for 
her  mother ;  her  life  was  consecrated  to  the  care  of 
her.  She  had  infinite  tact  and  a  good  deal  of  imag 
ination.  But  with  all  that,  she  could  only  stand 
upon  the  borders  of  the  land  where  her  mother 
lived,  alone.  In  days  of  health 

"  Not  even  the  tenrlerest  heart  and  next  our  own 
Knows  half  the  reasons  why  we  smile  or  sigh." 

How  much  more  exiled  from  human  sympathy 
must  they  be  who  always  live  in  pain,  "  their  lives' 
sad  undersong,"  who  do  not  know  a  moment  of 
healthy  vigor  or  an  hour  of  unbroken  sleep,  upon 
whom  the  thousand  unhappy  sensations  of  a  dis 
eased  body  are  continually  pressing  !  That  spirit 
can  rise  above  matter  and  through  long  years 
keep  its  ascendency  at  such  a  disadvantage  gives 
one  a  respect  for  that  which  is  not  material. 

Mrs.  Crittenden  lay  listening  to  the  music  that 
she  seemed  to  hear,  and  picturing  to  herself  what 
the  scene  was  in  the  church:  the  warmth,  the  glow, 
the  smell  of  the  evergreens,  the  shining  of  the 
laurel  leaves,  the  soft  depths  of  the  fir  branches, 
the  rich  colors  of  the  altar  and  its  many  lights. 


326  PHCEBE. 

She  put  out  her  hand  upon  the  crib  in  which  the 
sleeping  boy  lay  who  had  been  left  in  her  care, 
while  his  mother  should  be  away  at  church.  She 
whispered,  leaning  over  him,  — 

"  Soon  will  a  thousand  bells  ring  out, 
A  thousand  roofs  the  choral  shout 
Prolong,  where  Kings  with  Shepherds  meet, 
His  manger  with  their  gifts  to  greet. 
What  shall  we  do,  mine  infant  dear, 
Who  may  not  those  glad  anthems  hear  ? 
How  shall  we  serve  Him,  thou  and  I, 
Far  from  that  glorious  company  ?  " 

Poor  little  boy  !  he  had  had  an  illness,  and  the 
hand  that  lay  in  hers  was  thin  and  frail.  She 
wondered  wistfully  if  his  life  would  be  better  or 
worse  than  that  of  his  father,  of  whose  future  she 
had  spent  so  many  years  in  dreaming  here  in  this 
very  room,  here  on  this  ver}^  pillow.  Ah,  Barry, 
Barry !  you  have  wrung  our  hearts ;  you  have 
killed  our  hopes ;  you  have  failed  to  make  a  name 
and  place  for  yourself  among  your  fellows.  Who 
could  be  less  of  a  success  than  you  ? 

And  yet  there  was  deep  peace  in  her  heart  that 
night.  Barry's  son  might  have  a  worse  fate  than 
to  be  like  his  father.  The  courage  of  her  con 
victions  had  come  back  to  her.  Yes,  she  had 
done  right.  If  she  had  helped  him  to  lose  the 
world,  she  may  be  had  helped  him  to  save  his 
soul.  And  to  people  bound  to  beds  of  pain  the 
saving  of  one's  soul  looks  so  much  larger  than 
even  a  great  measure  of  temporal  success.  Yes, 


IN  MY  LADY'S  CHAMBER.  327 

she  was  glad  that  Barry  had  undone  himself  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world.  Without  the  sin,  she  would  ask 
nothing  better  for  this  pretty  baby,  whose  small 
hand  she  held,  than  what  his  father  was  starting 
with  now,  —  a  true  love  and  a  low  fortune,  the 
fear  of  God  and  small  countenance  from  men. 

At  last  voices  sounded  again  below  the  window, 
and  steps  crossed  the  piazza,  and  the  hall  door 
opened.  They  were  coming  back,  one  after  an 
other  ;  it  was  nearly  two  o'clock.  Their  voices 
were  subdued  and  quiet,  as  became  those  who 
were  coming  back  from  such  a  service.  One  after 
another  they  came  softly  to  the  door  of  the  dress 
ing-room.  First,  it  was  Phosbe,  who  entered  with 
a  wistful  look  towards  the  little  crib. 

"  He  has  n't  wakened?  "  she  said,  in  a  whisper, 
leaning  down  towards  her  mother-in-law. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  with  a  smile.  "  There 
hasn't  been  anything  to  do,  though  I  promised 
you  I  would  take  care  of  him  for  you." 

"  You  said  that  once  before  to  me,"  said  Phrebe, 
with  sudden  emotion  in  her  voice  and  face.  "I 
wish  —  I  had  "  — 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Mrs.  Crittenden. 
"  When  did  I  say  it  ?  " 

"  That  day  —  when  Barry  went  away  with 
you"-  . 

"  Oh,  I  remember,"  whispered  the  mother,  draw 
ing  her  down  to  her,  and  putting  her  arm  about 
her  neck.  "  Dear  child,  we  did  a  cruel  thing. 


328  PHCEBE. 

I  always  reproached  myself  that  you  were  left. 
I  knew  it  was  wrong.  But  you  have  forgiven 
us." 

"  Forgiven  you  —  oh  !  "  —  said  PJioabe,  with  a 
sort  of  shudder. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  You  can't?  Or  that 
you  think  it  is  the  other  way  ?  Oh,  let  me  tell 
you  this  to-night:  I  thank  God  for  you;  you  are 
one  of  the  blessings  of  my  life.  I  could  n't  ask 
anything  better  for  Barry.  Love  me  and  trust 
me,  Phoabe,  and  forgive  me  for  anything  pain 
ful  in  the  past  in  which  I  have  ever  had  any 
part." 

If  Pho3be's  life  had  hung  upon  it  she  could  not 
have  said  what  she  felt.  It  was  fortunate  that,  her 
mother-in-law  understood  her  and  interpreted  cor 
rectly  her  kiss  and  clasp  of  the  hand. 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  said  Barry,  coming  in.  "  My 
mother  still  awake?  A  merry  Christmas  to  you, 
mother,  and  a  robuster  grandson  to  keep  you 
company  next  year." 

He  stooped  down  and  kissed  her.  The  little 
movement  around  him  made  the  child  wake  up ; 
he  put  out  his  arms  to  his  father,  who  took  him 
up  and  said,  — 

"  Tell  us  all  merry  Christmas." 

He  laid  his  sleepy  head  down  on  his  father's 
shoulder,  with  his  eyes  wide  open,  and  did  not 
show  the  least  intention  to  speak. 

"  It 's  pleasant  for  a  parent  to  be  obeyed,"  ob- 


IN  MY  LADY'S  CHAMBER.  329 

served  Barry,  "  but  it 's  a  pleasure  I  don't  often 
taste." 

"  Here  are  some  flowers  for  you,  mamma,"  said 
Honor,  at  the.  door.  "  May  Reginald  bring  them 
to  you  ?  " 

"  It  seems  to  be  in  order  to  say  good-night 
here,"  said  Tartar,  following. 

"  Yes,  but  it  is  n't  in  order  to  say  anything  else," 
cried  Lucy.  "  Mamma  won't  have  a  moment's 
sleep  if  you  all  don't  go  away." 

"  Oh,  it  won't  hurt  me  to  give  Tartar  a  kiss. 
And  is  n't  Peyton  in  the  hall  ?  " 

Peyton  answered  for  himself,  and  gaunt  ancj 
tall  stooped  down  to  kiss  her  hand. 

"  This  is  quite  worth  staying  awake  all  night 
for,"  she  said,  still  holding  his  hand,  and  looking 
up  with  shining  eyes  upon  the  group  that  stood 
around  her  sofa.  "  Last  year  half  of  us  on  one 
side  of  the  ocean  and  half  on  the  other." 

"  Yes,"  cried  Barry,  with  a  laugh.  "  I  think 
we  '11  all  agree  this  Christmas  is  worth  two  of  last. 
Come,  Tartar,  tell  us  if  it  is  n't !  " 

"Answer  for  yourself,"  said  Tartar,  turning 
away,  her  dark  skin  suddenly  darkened  by  a  blush. 
"  What  was  the  matter  with  last  Christmas  ?  I 
for  one  enjoyed  it  thoroughly.  It  had  been  the 
dream  of  my  life  to  be  at  Rome  on  Christmas." 

"  Oh,  nothing.  Only  it  did  n't  seem  to  me  you 
were  in  the  very  highest  spirits,  if  I  remember 
right." 


330  PH(EBE. 

"  Well,  you  don't  remember  right,  since  you 
bad  the  fever.  You  rarely  do.  Lucy,  did  n't  you 
tell  us  we  ought  to  say  good-night  ?  " 

She  stooped  and  kissed  Mrs.  Crittenden  lightly, 
and  went  out  into  the  hall,  picking  up  her  bon 
net  and  muff,  and  hurrying  to  the  stairs  that  led 
up  to  her  room.  But  Peyton  was  as  quick,  and  as 
she  put  her  hand  upon  the  newel-post  he  put  his 
over  it. 

"  You  must  take  that  back,"  he  said. 

"  Take  what  back  ?  "  she  asked,  looking  up  at 
him  defiantly." 

"  Wasn't  there  anything  the  matter  with  last 
Christmas  ?  Come,  you  've  got  to  tell  me  that 
there  was." 

"  There  was  n't  anything  the  matter  with  it ; 
the  sun  shone  in  a  perfect  glory." 

"  Oh,  I  was  n't  talking  about  the  day.  I  was 
talking  about  you." 

"  Well,  then,  you  did  n't  express  yourself  with 
accuracy." 

"  I  '11  be  accurate  now.  You  said  that  you  en 
joyed  it  thoroughly." 

"  Why  not  ?  I  remember  I  had  a  little  head 
ache  towards  the  afternoon,  but  the  morning  had 
been  heavenly." 

"  Had  you  been  crying,  that  you  'd  got  a  head 
ache,  Tartar  ?  " 

"  Crying  ?      What  had  I  to  cry  about  ?     Pey* 


IN  MY  LADY'S  CHAMBER.  331 

ton,  you  '11  please  remember  I  have  n't  given  you 
the  right  to  say  such  things  as  that  to  me." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  have.  You  can't  take  that  back, 
you  know." 

"  We  '11  see  !  "  she  cried,  tearing  off  a  ring  with 
a  great  diamond  in  it,  and  dropping  it  upon  the 
floor  of  the  hall.  While  Peyton  stooped  to  pick 
it  up,  he  had  to  take  his  hand  off  hers.  She 
profited  by  the  release  to  fly  swiftly  up  the  stairs. 

But  he  followed  her  in  three  bounds,  and  caught 
her  at  the  landing-place,  where  there  was  no  light 
except  from  the  hall  below. 

"  You  '11  make  me  hate  you,"  she  cried,  panting. 

"  I  'm  not  afraid,"  he  said,  holding  her  hands. 
"  You  did  it  to  make  me  kiss  you,  and  I  don't 
mean  to  disappoint  you,  ever." 

Her  slender  hands  had  not  as  much  power  of 
resistance  as  her  tigerish  heart.  He  got  the  ring 
on  again,  and  he  got  his  kiss,  but  he  did  n't  get 
her  to  recant  about  last  Christmas. 

"  It  was  a  perfect  day,  and  I  enjoyed  it  thor 
oughly  ;  more,  a  great  deal  more,  than  I  shall  this. 
Of  that  I  'm  very  certain." 

The  others  were  coming  up  by  this  time,  and  he 
had  to  let  her  go.  His  eyes  followed  her.  Why 
should  she  say  such  things?  That,  perhaps,  will 
always  be  a  problem  to  him,  but  nothing  will  ever 
disaffect  him. 

Tartar   will   go   on   saying  what  she  does  not 


332  PIKEBE. 

mean,  and  Phoebe  failing  to  say  what  she  does,  to 
the  end  of  their  mortal  pilgrimage  ;  and  Peyton 
and  Barry  will  go  on  loving  them  and  cherishing 
them,  admiring  them  if  not  understanding  them, 
thanks  to  that  law  of  love,  affinity,  election,  sym 
pathy,  whatever  it  is  that  brings  Jack  to  Gill  and 
keeps  him  constant  to  her. 


of  fiction 

PUBLISHED  BY 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY, 

4  PARK  STREET,  BOSTON,  MASS. 


Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 

Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.     Illustrated.     I2mo 
Marjorie  Daw  and  Other  People.     I2mo 

Prudence  Palfrey.     I2mo 

The  Queen  of  Sheba.     I2mo    .... 
The  Stillwater  Tragedy.     I2mo    .     .    . 

Hans  Christian  Andersen. 


Complete  Works.  First  complete  edition  in  English, 
published  by  arrangement  with  the  author.  In  ten 
uniform  volumes,  crown  8vo. 

The  Improvisatore ;  or,  Life  in  Italy 1.50 

The  Two  Baronesses 1.50 

O.  T. ;  or,  Life  in  Denmark 1.50 

Only  a  Fiddler 1.50 

In  Spain  and  Portugal 1.50 

A  Poet's  Bazaar 1.50 

Pictures  of  Travel 1.50 

The  Story  of  my  Life.     With  portrait 1.50 

Wonder  Stories  told  for  Children.     Illustrated  .     .     .  1.50 

Stories  and  Tales.     Illustrated 1.50 

The  set 15-00 

Half  calf 32-5O 

William  Henry  Bishop. 

Detmoid  :  A  Romance.    "  Little  Classic  "  style.  i8mo  1.25 

The  House  of  a  Merchant  Prince.     i2mo 1.50 


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